Operation: Bury Your Dead
by MercurialInK
Summary: On the run from every intelligence organization in the world, hunted by a traitor who's supposed to be dead, and caught in the middle of a civil war between the board members of Scorpia, Alex is pretty sure it doesn't get worse. Sequel to Red Crescent.
1. Ghost

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Ghosts

**Yes folks, it is here. The (not-so-long)-awaited sequel to Operation: Red Crescent. For those of you just tuning in, I recommend you go over and find the first story, or you might get a tad confused. For those of you rejoining us after having read Operation: Red Crescent, thank you for sticking with Alex through everything I've been sadistic enough to put his through, and I hope this new segment does not disappoint.**

**Disclaimer: Everything that follows herein is statistically improbable. Deal with it. =)**

Ah: Just a quick thing: Tomorrow night is Shavuot, and in the spirit of Red Crescent, I wanted to share a bit about what that means. Shavuot is a celebration of the day the Jews received the Torah (our code of law) from God at Mount Sinai (supposedly). We eat a lot of dairy food (because at the time, the laws of Kashrut (dietary restrictions) were known _of_ but knot actually _known_, and we couldn't eat meat. We dance and sing and stay up all night studying – it's basically a celebration of us being Jewish, and accepting God (again, supposedly).

Anyway, just wanted to share. Moving along…

**I officially refuse to keep putting up disclaimers from now on. If I were AH, would I REALLY be writing on fanfiction? No, no I would not. I would be writing the next brilliant Alex Rider book. Consider this my standing disclaimer for the rest of this series. I'm sick of pandering to the copyright gods. **

**Enjoy this new segment – and have a happy Shavuot!**

**PLEASE NOTE: I HAVE EDITED THIS SEGMENT, AND IT IS MUCH LONGER NOW. (Did I fix the whole problem with rushing and anticlimax?)**

**~InK**

………………………………………………………………………

"_You _will _go back to Scorpia, John," Mrs. Jones said. Her face was filled with hard lines of determination._

"_I will do no such thing," John Rider growled. "You promised. You promised that you would give me a new identity, and that you would leave me alone, so that I could have the life I wanted with Helen and my son. I did the job you gave me; I held up my end of the bargain. It's your turn to deliver."_

_There was a hint of petulance in his voice – he sounded almost childish. But mostly, there was thinly disguised menace. Tulip Jones watched her agent carefully. He was unpredictable and uncontrollable. If he decided to attack her, it wasn't like she could stop him. She resisted the urge to go for the gun at her hip, keeping her arms folded neutrally in front of her._

"_It is no longer my right to gamble away my life, even for my country," John said, his voice becoming soft, pleading. "I have a family. I promised Helen I would be there for Alex."_

"_Then break your promise," Tulip said without sympathy._

"_We had a deal!" John yelled, standing. His fist came down hard on the table between them. Tulip didn't even jump. _

"_Sit down John," she said calmly. "We lied. Its what we do."_

"_This is how it is going to work, if you will not return willingly," she continued. "We will place your son under the care of one of our other agents, and we will hide Helen so thoroughly that you will never find her."_

_Mrs. Jones' voice was matter-of-fact. Calm, professional. She slipped another peppermint into her mouth, burning away the acrid taste of the threat she knew was necessary. John sank into his seat, as if his legs could not longer support him. All the anger left his frame in an instant._

"_You wouldn't," John whispered. He looked around him, as if the walls were beginning to close in on him; panic was replacing the anger that had consumed him just a moment ago. He looked like a trapped wild animal, searching for any escape._

"_Wouldn't we?" Tulip asked. "Ian would be more than happy to care for his nephew…"_

_John laughed. Actually laughed. Tulip wondered (and not for the first time either) whether he was loosing it._

"_I've seen Ian burn _cereal,_" John choked out. "Twice. I don't think he even knows how to use a dishwasher, and if it weren't for his housekeeper, the man would forget to buy groceries on a regular basis. You want to give him a _child _to care for? _My _child?"_

"_Go back into Scorpia one last time, and we will discuss the terms of your retirement," Tulip said unsympathetically._

"_How long?" John Rider rasped, defeated. He might pretend to hold some of the cards, but both he and Mrs. Jones knew that he no longer had the upper hand. Mrs. Jones felt a surge of triumph; John Rider was to be the greatest success MI6 had ever seen. They could not let him go just yet. _

"_As long as it takes."_

………………………………………………………………………

"We received a tip early this morning," Alan Blunt said, meeting his Deputy Director's eyes over the top of his desk. It was still very early in the morning, not yet three o-clock, but Blunt was sitting comfortably in his suit in his office, as if it was already noon. "Alex has escaped Scorpia's hold, with the help of Yassen Gregorovitch."

"I thought Yassen was being securely held by some of our best," Mrs. Jones said frowning. "It isn't every day that we find a close to dead Yassen Gregorovitch on Air Force One, after all. How could we let him escape?"

"Yes, well, much like our Alex, Yassen has a talent for getting out of rough situations," Blunt said by way of an explanation.

"Do you think he intends to use Alex?" Mrs. Jones asked. Blunt shook his head. "The most recent news I've had is that Alex is on a plane from Tunisia, safe and sound. Agent Daniels remains among Scorpia, unsuspected."

Mrs. Jones paled at the news about Alex.

"What's his flight number?" she demanded sharply.

"Why does it matter?" Blunt asked.

"I was coming in here to report that five minutes ago, an air control station in Greece picked up a transmission from a man who had said he had hijacked flight 617 from Tunisia to London, and was planning on crashing it into a major structure if the British government did not provide one hundred scud missiles and an anthrax vaccine to Al Qaeda."

Blunt typed quickly on his computer, and he once again looked up at Mrs. Jones.

"That boy has both the best and the worst luck of any operative I have ever met," Jones said, understanding the look that Alan was giving her.

"Well, we can't very well give in to their demands," Blunt said practically. Mrs. Jones nodded, knowing what came next.

"So we wait for Alex to be… Alex, then?" Blunt asked. Reluctantly, Mrs. Jones nodded.

"Make sure we have someone to wait for him at the airport," Blunt continued. "I have another mission I believe Alex would be perfect for."

Had Mrs. Jones thought that protesting could have saved Alex from what Blunt was planning, she would have. As things stood however, she knew that Blunt would never give up on the perfect chance to solve a conflict that had been raging for years. He wanted to use Alex again, to save thousands of lives.

But the cost to Alex... He would not survive. Even if he did manage to return to London alive and whole... if Blunt sent Alex on this particular mission, he would never be able to come back from it. It was almost like Alan was _trying _to make the boy psychologically unable, for the love of god! Hadn't they already learned their lesson with his father?

Mrs. Jones shuddered, holding onto the edge of her desk like it was a piece of driftwood in a storm. The one thing tethering her to this life, this job.

She carefully unwrapped a peppermint, and she let it wash away the acidic taste of death from her mouth.

_What's the matter, Jones? _John Rider's voice asked in her head. _Loosing your taste for abusing agents? Can't take the heat anymore?_

Tulip gasped for a breath she hadn't been aware that she had to take.

_I did my job, _she thought furiously, regaining control.

_Sure you did, _the sarcastic voice in her head replied.

_I'm loosing it, _Tulip realized weakly.

Not that that was particularly surprising, given her job. Just a little… disturbing.

………………………………………………………………………

The sound of a shot being fired echoed through the streets of London failed to reach the ears of any bystanders.

The sniper in the buildings overhead quickly disassembled his weapon and moved down the side of the building using the fire escape, navigating almost entirely by feel alone. There wasn't even a shred of light in the sky to indicate that dawn was but a few hours away. He made no sound moving across the metal frame, despite the fact that it was old and rickety.

The man was an expert at remaining unseen. He had managed it for a long time; it was a necessary part of who he was. From a young age, he had always been taught to be silent when he moved. The training he had received for his job made it all the more imperative that he become a ghost.

Of course, the sniper thought wryly as he knelt by his victim, confirming the kill, the people that had trained him had never once thought that he might turn those skills against them. They thought he was one of them.

_Well, this is for you, Tulip, my old friend, _the man thought with a viciousness that surprised him. He had once been a patriot.

Now?

Now he would see Scorpia and MI6 destroyed.

The agent that had been targeted, Nathaniel Hurwitz, had died instantly when the bullet entered his skull. The bullet had created a hole the size of a grapefruit in the back of his head.

The sniper simply dropped the shell from the shot he had fired next to the body. No reason to police his brass after all, not when he could give them his fingerprints and his name – it was time to make his identity known to MI6.

The man who had spent his whole life learning to move like a ghost was about to become one.

………………………………………………………………………

As soon as the terrorist looked away, Alex checked the woman's pulse. It was normal, which meant he hadn't hit her hard enough to kill her. He didn't know enough to see whether or not she had a concussion, but it seemed luck was playing both sides today.

"Here, switch seats with me," the man next to Alex in the window seat said. "I'm a doctor."

Gratefully, Alex moved over to let the man work. It wasn't like there was anything he could do to help the woman. Well, aside from making sure this plane didn't crash.

Somehow, he doubted that Britain was going to capitulate to the demands of these terrorists.

Speaking of which…

Alex had to come up with a plan. Rapidly, he scanned the plane. It was a typical 747 – two rows of seats on either side of a central isle, seating about 70 people if it was full.

There were four terrorists that he knew of for sure, and Alex would have bet anything that there was at least one more. All of the ones he had physically seen were carrying small caliber weapons, and didn't seem to have a problem with causing pain – though none of them had fired just yet.

_Well, its not like they can exactly fire a gun on a plane, _Alex thought. _They're probably just for show, because if they miss and hit a window, this plane is going down. And even if they are suicidal, they're not stupid. _

"Is she okay?" Alex asked quietly, not wanting to draw attention to them.

"She'll be fine, but she's going to have one hell of a headache when she wakes up," the doctor said. Alex nodded.

"You didn't look real surprised when she went down," the doctor went on. Alex shrugged, trying to avoid his eyes.

"Cub, you're about as transparent as glass," the doctor said, whispering in Alex's ear.

Alex nearly yelped with surprise at hearing the name he had been called while training with the SAS.

_Oh fuck._

Snake.

Alex fought the urge to scream in frustration. The last time he had seen this man, he had been trying to make Alex's life hell. And what, exactly, were the odds that he would run into the SAS soldier on a plane back from _Tunisia, _of all places, during a terrorist attack? His week seemed to be getting more and more surreal.

He really did have the most fucked up luck, Alex thought bitterly.

"What the hell?" he asked weakly.

"I was about to say the same thing," the SAS man said, giving Alex a searching look. _"I'm _here coming home on leave. Just so happened that the first plane out of Afghanistan was through Tunisia."

Snake tried to meet Alex's eyes, and failed, because the teenager was glaring out the window. "And I'm guessing _you_ were playing Double-O-Seven, am I right?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Alex answered automatically. Snake snorted.

"Right, well," he said. "Got any ideas as for how we can get to ground safely? Because my girlfriend is waiting for me in London, and I would really hate to die now, after having survived twelve months in hell."

"Any suggestions?" Alex whispered back.

"You're the spy boy," Snake said plainly.

"You're the trained soldier," Alex hissed.

"Oh don't bullshit me – you've seen as much action as I have, since you left Brecon Beacons, haven't you?"

"That's none of your fucking business," Alex said.

"No, its not," Snake said, eyes twinkling in amusement. "But what _is _my fucking business is surviving today. So if you wouldn't mind?"

Alex really wished he could hit Snake, but he turned his attention back to the situation at hand.

"I'm going to try and go to the bathroom, and see what their security is like," Alex said calmly, climbing over Snake and the unconscious woman before the SAS soldier could stop him.

"You there! Sit back down!" The terrorist that had hit the woman was yelling at him now. Forcing his heart to beat evenly and his voice to remain steady, Alex turned to face him. _I am not afraid of this man, _Alex told himself over and over again.

"I have to go to the bathroom," he said in his most annoyed _I'm a teenager _voice. He had gotten it almost perfect - the right mix of fear, disbelief, anger, and vanity. The terrorist softened a little, realizing this wasn't some sinister plot, but an honest issue. He nodded.

"Go, but know that I'm right behind you," he said. "Try anything, and I will shoot you."

Alex nodded as if exasperated, but moved down the deathly silent aisle, trying to do nothing offensive. He locked the bathroom door as securely as he could behind him. Alex knew he had only a minute before he had to go back. He searched the bathroom frantically, looking for something he could use as a weapon.

Of course, he _was _in an airplane. It wasn't like they were going to leave anything seriously dangerous lying around.

Which begged the question of how these terrorists had gotten on the plane with guns.

_Disassembled, made of special plastic parts except for the spring and other essential parts, _the part of his brain long honed by his work as a spy, and then by the training he received at Malagosto. That particular trick had been used by Scorpia many times.

Alex doubted now that these terrorists were affiliated with Scorpia, but he couldn't imagine any other method that would be useful to get a gun onto a plane.

Alex watched his reflection while he tried to come up with a plan. The only idea that sprang to mind was leaping out of the bathroom and just taking out as many of the terrorists and he could, hoping Snake could watch his back.

_Oh yeah, that would work, _Alex thought derisively. He'd been imagining himself as some kind of commando James Bond. Yeah, right.

How to take out the terrorists without getting anyone else hurt?

If they could get more of the passengers involved, they could get those guns out of the way, and then the whole situation became a whole lot easier. The close space of the aisles also complicated things a bit, and he didn't know how they could free their pilots, which was also a big problem, but they would deal with that when they got there, if they could.

Someone banged on the door. Alex winced. His time was up.

"Come on kid, let's go!" the terrorist yelled.

"Coming," Alex muttered. He unlocked the door, and pulled it open.

Halfway down the aisle, Alex made his move. He struck with his elbow, hitting the stomach of the terrorist behind him. The man grunted in pain and tried to take a swing at Alex, but Alex lashed out again, kicking the gun out of his hand before he hand the chance to move.

The terrorist took a swing at Alex's head before grabbing for the gun, which was unfortunate, for him. One of the other passengers had stood and picked it up while Alex was knocked to the floor.

"Put down the gun," one of the terrorists said menacingly.

The passenger simply struck with the gun, knocking the man Alex had disarmed unconscious.

The other terrorist fired. Screams erupted. Alex glanced back to see blood blossoming at the man's chest. He was pulled up by the collar of his shirt.

"You little-"

The man's eyes rolled back in his head. Snake had hit him from behind. He staggered forward, and Alex backed up to get out of his way.

"Alex, go check the cockpit," Snake said, appearing behind the unconscious terrorist. Another shot rang out, and Snake gasped in pain when a bullet hit him in the shoulder. It was lucky the terrorist hadn't taken the time to aim, because if he had, Snake would have been dead. As it was, he roared and turned on the man.

Alex ran back through the aisle, which was filled with fresh screaming. All the passengers were staying in their seats, scared after what had happened to the first person to help Alex.

One of the terrorists was already coming out of the cockpit when Alex approached. He threw a punch before the man could react, but the terrorist was faster. He grabbed Alex's wrist and pulled it behind him.

"Anyone else move, and we will start shooting again, starting with this child," the terrorist yelled. Alex saw Snake freeze halfway down the aisle. The terrorist he had been fighting slammed his gun into his head, hard enough to give Snake a concussion. Alex winced.

"What to do with you now," the terrorist holding Alex whispered in his ear. Alex shuddered.

"Let me go?" he suggested. The man snorted, and said something in Arabic, that Alex had the sneaking suspicion mean _'does the boy think I'm stupid?'_

"Move, and I have no problem killing anyone," the terrorist warned him, steering him back into the cockpit.

Alex forced down a gasp. The two pilots were dead. Their bodies were in the corner, bullets in their heads. He gulped. There were two terrorists sitting where the pilot and co-pilot should have, and another two crowded into the space behind them.

One of them cursed and demanded something in Arabic of the man holding Alex. The man holding Alex answered in rapid Arabic, too quickly for Alex to catch anything useful.

_If I live long enough for my feet to touch the ground again, I am going to learn Arabic even if it kills me, _Alex thought, reiterating a promise he had made himself several times while on his last mission.

The man questioning Alex's captor (who Alex presumed was the man in charge of this who operation), glared down at Alex.

"It seems you have made a great deal of problems for me, boy," he said.  
"Well, yeah," Alex said, unable to bite his tongue.

"I believe that it would be best to kill you," the man said quietly. "But my friend here suggests that we let you live, for now."

"Um, I like life?" Alex asked, unconsciously shifting away from the man in front of him. At least the guy holding him didn't want him dead – yet.

The man in charge issued an order to the other man standing with him. The man nodded and left, drawing his gun.

"I think we should see to it that the rest of your fellow passengers are not inspired by your example," the head terrorist said

"What do you want?" Alex managed angrily.

"I want my boss to be provided with a vaccine against Anthrax, and one hundred Scud missiles, because I am in a position to make such a demand," the man said with a sinister smile.

"Why Anthrax?" Alex asked before he could help himself. The man only raised an eyebrow and laughed. He looked at the terrorist holding Alex and asked him another question in Arabic, but Alex's captors' response was cut short by a transmission coming from the plane. Alex glanced over – whoever it was, they were speaking in Arabic, with an air of command to the words. The mastermind behind the whole thing? Alex wondered.

The man in charge said something, and the radio responded. The former was now positively glaring, and Alex knew things didn't bode well for him if he was angry.

Finally the transmission cut off.

………………………………………………………………………

_"You should take this, just in case, little Alex," Yassen said, handing Alex a bright pink rubber ball. "In case the flight gets rather more interesting than usual."_

_"Do you know something I don't?" Alex asked carefully, not taking the rubber ball out of the assassin's hands. He still harbored no trust of the man._

_"Only something you don't seem to understand," Yassen said. "That you attract trouble like an open garbage can attracts flies."_

_"Thank you, for that analogy," Alex said. Yassen shrugged._

_"Are you suggesting that it is not true?" he asked innocently. Alex glared, but he couldn't disagree. He _was _a magnet for trouble. It just seemed to find him wherever he went, no matter what he did. It was lucky Ian had trained him to deal with dangerous situations. True, Ian had probably imagined Alex seeking out the danger he would need such skills for, but they had kept him alive more than once._

_He took the rubber ball. _

_"What is it?"_

_"I believe the term you would use is 'gadget?'" Yassen said. _

_"Well, clearly," Alex said. "I didn't think you wanted me to enjoy bouncing a ball for several hours."_

_"Do not do that," Yassen agreed. "Bounce it only if you're in trouble. It's a rather useful distraction."_

………………………………………………………………………

"Who are you?" the man in charge demanded. Alex quailed under his furious gaze.

"My name is Gary Davidson," Alex said quietly. "I was taking a course in scientific Arabic in Tunisia," he lied. He doubted his Arabic was good enough for these men to believe he had been on a real language emersion program, but he knew enough of the words concerning explosives and volatile compounds that he could pass off having learned the language for scientific uses.

"Liar!" before Alex knew what was happening, the man drove his fist into Alex's stomach. He yelled out before he could seal his lips shut. He endured the next blow silently.

"Who are you?" he asked again. "Why has my superior ordered me not to kill you?"

Alex started. That was news.

"I have no idea," he said levelly. "I'm just a kid – I'm in high school, for Christ's sake!"

The mention of the name of god reminded him of something, and Alex could have kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier. He couldn't have said why the Lord's name reminded him of Yassen, but it had. Yassen had given him a rubber ball back in the airport. If he bounced it once, it would get him out of a tight spot.

With his arms pinned behind him, Alex didn't have much of a chance to go for it, but he just needed a second's worth of distraction to make his move.

The leader was ready to punch him again when a second transmission was coming through. It was in English.

"Speak, and I will cut out your tongue," Alex's captor whispered in his ear as the transmission began. Alex wasn't dense enough to think yelling out now would be any help at all, and he nodded his agreement to stay silent.

"Come in alpha hotel six one seven," the voice said. The co-pilot picked up the radio.

"This is alpha hotel six one seven," he said. "Have you made your decision?"

"I have been authorized to tell you that the British government will not negotiate with terrorists, and your demands are being ignored."

"Very well," the man in charge said. "Upon your own heads be it."

The co-pilot cut the transmission.

"Mr. Davidson, how would you like to see what Buckingham Palace looks like right before we crash into it?"

Alex shook his head.

The man in charge gave the pilot an order in Arabic, and the plane lurched.

"We're now in British airspace," he taunted Alex.

Three things happened then at the exact same time, which were both incredible fortunate and unfortunate.

First, the plane began to dip forwards, beginning its suicidal descent – screams from the body of the place reached the cockpit.

The second was that the door to the cockpit was thrown open by one of the passengers, a man who immediately launched himself at the terrorists without consideration. Alex had a second to briefly register that he had dark skin and looked vaguely asian before his body became a blur.

And the third was that Alex struck out with his foot, hitting the man behind him in the groin. The man released him, and Alex spun around, dealing him another blow.

"Get down!" Alex yelled, pulling the passenger with him as he dropped, pulling the bright pink rubber ball out of his pocket, throwing it against the opposite wall.

It was a flash bang grenade.

Alex cried out. He had covered his ears and shut his eyes, but it was painful, all the same.

The passenger next to him had already recovered and was fighting the four terrorists.

Alex heard a curse that brought to mind a phrase that he had heard Yedit utter at least three times under stress, which he knew now was a rather vicious Arabic curse. He could have laughed, but he didn't think he had the breath to spare. Alex sprang to his feet, and went for the nearest terrorist, focusing on the hand that was holding the gun. The plane lurched uncomfortably as the pilots left their stations.

The gun went clattering across the floor, from his first blow to the terrorist's hand. A second one tried to grab him from behind, but Alex lashed out hearing a grunt as his reward, followed by another familiar curse.

Two shots where fired, and Alex heard them bury into the floor, thankfully not bouncing off of any surface or crashing into the windows.

The plane lurched again. It was definitely going down. Alex abandoned his fight and leaped towards the controls. In his head, he was remembering a weekend in France, meeting with a friend of Ian's named Richard, who had offered to take the two of them up in his four seater plane. Alex had gotten to fly copilot, and when they were in the air, Richard showed him the basic mechanics of flight.

He pulled back on the controller, righting the plane just before a fist connected with his jaw. The man in charge was attacking him now, and Alex was forced to abandon his post to defend himself. The controller was knocked, and the plane steered alarmingly to the right, tipping unsteadily. Alex tried to remain on his feet, but the lack of a solid ground was working against his opponents as much as against him.

Two of the terrorists had already been knocked out, and their bodies where rolling around on the floor.

The plane shifted again as the passenger grabbed the controller. Alex tried to hold off some of the terrorists so that his ally could right them, but he couldn't hold off both of them. The plane dipped back down when Alex was thrown into the dashboard. Screams from behind them, in the body of the plane, were becoming more common, and Alex heard shots being fired. Alarmed, he remembered that there were two more terrorists back in the body of the plane.

They had to get this situation under control. Fast.

A roundhouse kick took out the second to last man in the cockpit, and Alex and the passenger took out the second one in moments; Alex swept his legs out from underneath him, and the passenger slammed his foot into the terrorists head.

Sagging, Alex sat back down at the board, righting the plane again.

"I thought I was coming _back _from a war zone, not getting into one," the man said. Alex started.

"I'm Oliver," the man said, extending his hand. "I was with Doctors Without Borders, working in Afghanistan," he explained to Alex's perplexed look.

"Alex," Alex said, not bothering to lie. "Do they teach everyone in Doctors Without Borders to fight like that?" he asked. He never got his answer, because the end of his question was punctuated by more shots ringing out in the body of the plane.

"Oh shit!" he exclaimed, as the door slammed open. Both terrorists rushed them at the same time, firing like crazy. Alex ducked, avoiding getting shot by about an inch - he _felt _the bullet moving past his face, but he didn't have time to be glad he was still alive, because he still had to deal with two angry terrorists rushing at them.

Alex heard the crackling of broken machinery behind him, and felt the plane tip down again.

_Fuck, _he thought desperately throwing everything he had into the attack. He managed to wrestle the gun away from one of them. They were rolling on the ground, tossed about by the plane. Somewhere beyond his immediate awareness, Alex knew that Oliver was fighting for his own life against the other terrorist, and he tried not to roll underfoot. The terrorist he was fighting got everal solid hits in before Alex managed to knock him out. He stood, swaying a little, watching Oliver's fight go in and out of focus.

"Kid, you're knackered," Oliver said, after viciously kicking the man in the groin. He went down, and stayed there, moaning in pain. Oliver's face was white, and Alex realized with some alarm that the blood blooming on his arm was his own. He didn't seem to notice, because he went straight over to the board, and tried to right the plane. Unfortunately, it only shook dangerously, levelling out some, but not all the way. They were no longer plummeting out of the sky, but they were definitely still falling.

"And you're shot," he said coolly. Oliver looked down, and winced.

"Wouldn't be the first time," he said, almost calmly. He turned on the intercom.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the terrorists have all be neutralized," he said into the microphone. Cheers erupted behind them. "Unfortunately, a bullet is lodged in the control panel, and unless there's a skilled pilot among you guys, we might still be done for. If you can help, please come up. Now."

Oliver leaned back. The world outside the windshield was shifting alarmingly.

"And if there isn't someone?" Alex asked, not really wanting to hear the answer to his own question.

"Well, how do you feel about trying to crash us into the water?" Oliver asked. "We have enough control for that, I think. With enough warning, most of us might survive."

Alex winced. He really hoped that it didn't come to that.

"How long to be wait before we try something like that?" he asked.

"We have about five minutes before it would be necessary," Oliver said, glancing out the window. "Would you mind helping me tie a tourniquet in the meantime?"

Alex tore a strip of cloth from one of the terrorists' shirts, and tied it around Oliver's elbow as tightly as possible. Hopefully, it would stem the flow of blood long enough for them to get him to a hospital.

"I'm going to go check to make sure there's no one seriously hurt back there," Oliver said as soon as Alex was done. Alex remembered Snake, and realized that if they had to make a water landing, he might not make it. He didn't hate the man, and that thought kind of sucked.

The door to the cockpit opened again, and Alex started, expecting more adversaries. Instead, a woman wearing the uniform of a stewardess was there. Her hair was blonde, tied back in a tight ponytail. She looked to be in her thirties.

"I know how to fly," she said confidently. Alex vacated the pilots seat wordlessly, too exhausted to make any conversation. She fiddled with controls on the board, and carefully worked the controller, and Alex actually did feel the plane starting to level properly. Her voice had an Australian accent to it.

"Bloody hell," she hissed, trying to turn on the transmitter. Then she shrugged. "Looks like we're just going to have to hope that no one is taking off or landing when we get near the airfield," she said. "We have no communication with the ground, and it's going to be a bumpy landing as is. You're bleeding, by the way," she added the last as almost an afterthought.

"Do I want to know where?" Alex asked wearily. The girl looked back at the control panel.

"Probably not," she said.

The sun was staring to rise as the plane began a final descent. It shook violently as the controller acted up, but each time, the Australian woman managed to right it. Alex buckled himself into the co-pilots seat, keeping a careful eye on the terrorists.

The landing, as she said, was bumpy. The plane lurched, threatening to tip over several times. When it finally landed, cheering and clapping arose from the body of the plane. Stairs were brought out next to the plane, and there were police and reporters waiting on the tarmac. Alex wasn't looking forward to dodging their questions about his identity.

The Australian woman leaned back when she finally brought the plane to a halt.

"Welcome to London," she said into the intercom. "It's been lovely flying with you all, and we hope you don't remember this incident next time you choose to fly," she said cheekily into the microphone. Alex chocked back a peal of laugher. "The cost of your flight will be waived, and you will all get free vouchers for another flight with us."

"Are you allowed to do that?" Alex asked when she turned the microphone off. She shrugged.

"Its standard if something goes seriously wrong," she said. "This is seriously wrong," she said. "Come on kid, lets go say goodbye to all the nice passengers."

Alex followed her reluctantly. Being thanked for doing his job was a new experience for him. The whole plane cheered when the two of them left the cockpit, and all of them thanked him profusely when they left. One woman holding the hand of a six year old boy hugged him, and her son told Alex he hoped to grow up to be just like him.

Oliver had been off the plane first, helping a now-conscious Snake walk off the plane. Oliver grinned tiredly at him. "See you," he said. clapping him on the shoulder. Snake met Alex's eyes momentarily, and his quiet 'thanks' was almost as good as all the other's combined.

Once everyone had gone, the police Alex had seen came on board. He started when he realized they weren't police, but SAS.

_Then again, it makes sense, _he told himself. Wearily, he gave them his statement, and watched them haul away the still-unconscious terrorists.

"What's your name, kid?" one of the soldiers asked.

"Alex," Alex said. He didn't have any ID with him, but he knew it would be easy to verify. "Alex Rider."

"Why were you in Tunisia?" the man asked.

_I _was _in Egypt, helping an internationally sought terrorist clear her name, and then I attacked a Mossad agent, go dragged across a border, hung out with some terrorists, got kidnapped by more terrorists, and then escaped with another internationally known assassin._

"I was studying scientific Arabic at the Universite de Sousse," Alex lied easily. "I wasn't any good, so I came home early."

"Do you have family waiting to pick you up?" the man asked. Alex paused, and then nodded. MI6 would have sent an agent to debrief him.

"Right, well, I'm assuming that you don't really want to talk to any reporters at the moment," he said, and Alex nodded in relief. "I'll have my men help you slip into the terminal so you can meet whoever's picking you up. Unfortunately," he added, turning to the stewardess-turned -savior, "I can't help you with the same - just don't mention our friend here, if you can help it? Let him talk when he's ready."

_More like never, _Alex thought. He was grateful to the soldier for letting him off the hook. Soon, he was looking around the terminal, trying to appear inconspicuous. Most of the people on board the plane were focusing on their loved ones, glad to still be alive. Alex cast around, wondering if he would see the agent before the agent found him.

"Jack!" He yelled suddenly.

The redheaded American was standing to the side, looking around frantically. Throwing all caution aside, Alex ran over, catching her in a tight hug.

"Alex!" Jack said, sounding relieved. "You're alive."

"Of course," Alex said, smiling cheekily. All the exhaustion had left him the second he had seen his guardian. "You'd hardly get on without me!" He dodged the playful smack Jack sent his way, and hugged her again. She clutched at him like she was afraid he would disappear if she let him go. For his part, Alex was afraid of the same thing.

"Lets get out of here before we have to talk to any reporters?" Alex asked, eyeing the crowd around them with some trepidation.

"Yeah, thats probably a good idea," Jack said. "You need to sleep. For several days, I would wager. You look exhausted."

Alex shrugged. The tiredness was creeping back on him. He ducked behind a luggage trolley to avoid Oliver and a couple of reporters. The doctor was clearly trying to shake them off, and was snapping at the paramedic that was trying to treat his arm.

"Just, sod off for a minute," he growled at the newswoman who shoved a microphone in his face. The woman and her camera crew backed off, and launched themselves at the Aussie stewardess that had flown them to safety.

"Come on," Jack whispered conspiratorially, and they made a run for the doors. It had started to rain outside, but Alex didn't mind. After days of sun and heat, and even more days of airless captivity, he was glad to breathe fresh air again. The rain was refreshing. It washed away the horror of the nighttime hours, and Alex enjoyed the cool sensation. Jack didn't let go of him all the way to the car, and Alex didn't mind one bit. It was just good to feel her nearby again.

He was finally home.


	2. The End

Operation: Bury Your Dead – The End

**This piece was inspired by my schools really stupid guidance councilor.**

**Guess what? I got pulled out of watching Letters From Iwo Jima in AP World because our guidance councilor (who is funded by an organization that runs clinics for Jewish teens that are 'troubled') thinks I'm depressed, suicidal, or addicted to drugs. Possibly all three.**

**Fantastic. Because school was so monotonous, I need all my teachers looking at me like I'm shooting up with something. Really fantastic, especially when my advisor was the one who tossed me to the wolves in the first place. Thanks, Chris. Thanks for that. When I have to take a piss test to prove I'm clean, I will be thinking of just how I can get back at you.**

**Now, without further ado… Alex and the guidance councilor. Oh, and some wonderful Alex/Sabina fluff, so that we can see our hero's romantic side. And because I do feel kind of guilty for everything that will happen to him before I've finished. **

**Oh, and some wonderful Alex/MI6 power games. **

**Enjoy it. Tonight I'm going to go find some heroin and plant it in my advisors desk.**

**Because he totally deserves it. **

**~InK**

………………………………………………………………………

"_I won't do it," John said hoarsely, after almost a full minute of silence. _

_He had no doubt Tulip would carry out her threat; she was young, and ambitious. She would do almost anything to be promoted._

_But he, John Rider, had deceived Scorpia for years. He had played them so thoroughly, they considered him one of their best and most trustworthy agents._

_For years, he had managed to protect his wife – at the very least, neither MI6 nor Scorpia had ever attempted to use her against him – well, to be fair, it wasn't as if they needed to…_

_He could get home, and get away with her and Alex before MI6 could do anything. He could take them to Yassen, and he would help him disappear._

_Tulip Jones watched him for a few moments, debating what to do next. With this agent… she could very well believe he was just trying to force her into showing her hand._

_He didn't think she would do it. Or that she could. She sighed, exasperated._

"_Yes, you will John, we both know it," she said. But the eyes that looked back at her from John Rider's face burned with intensity._

"_I think we're done here," he said quietly, and stood. "Good day."_

_Did he think that he could reach Helen before them? Did he even really think he had a hope of getting out of this building unless they wanted him to?_

_Tulip shivered, watching the retreating back of the best field agent she had ever seen._

_She had no doubt that even if she picked up her phone and called for security, John would waltz out the doors of the Royal and General like a man who just made the last payment on his house, without even a sweat on his forehead to show for the work._

_He was brilliant._

_No, Tulip corrected herself. He was the best._

_And there lay the reason MI6 would never let go of Jonathan Rider._

_Tulip allowed herself a second of indecision as the door snapped shut. She knew very well that what she was about to do would destroy the man that had just left her office._

_On the other hand, they had to break him, shatter him, to rebuild him. If they took away every reason he had for _not_ remaining with them, he would stay by their side. If he chose not to take risks because he had a family, then there was only one solution – get rid of the family._

_Tulip picked up her phone and dialed the extension of the man she had left in charge of this operation, if it came to it._

"_It is time, Agent Hurwitz" she said, and put the receiver down._

_Thousands of miles away, only three days later, John Rider was standing in front of Scorpia once again._

………………………………………………………………………

"Bloody. Fucking. Hell."

Every word came out as its own sentence, punctuated by the sound of something crashing – two lamps and the television.

The British assassin was seriously pissed off. He kicked the desk in his motel room.

His contact had told him a high priority agent had been boarding a plane to London from Tunisia, and he had assumed…

_Fuck._

He had almost gotten the child killed. The whole venture had been a waste of recourses.

Not that he was sad about the men that were now in British custody, but convincing Al Qaeda to get on board had required his calling in more favors than he would have liked to.

All to nearly kill a _child._

The man shuddered and swore again. It had been a very close thing. He couldn't believe how close it had been.

And then, the realization that the _boy _had been called a _high priority agent of MI6_ had driven him past his usual patience. Were they so callous they would even abuse a child?

The man knew about Alex Rider, and his work for MI6, but knowing that, and hearing with his own ears that he was a skilled agent was another.

Damn MI6. Damn that bitch Jones and her sodding superior, Blunt. Damn them to hell.

Of course, this changed nothing.

He would have his revenge, and it would be all the sweeter for being able to extract revenge for this incident.

At that moment, his phone rang.

"Is it ready?" he snapped. He smiled slightly upon hearing the answer.

"Move out whenever you wish then," he said, his voice calmer than it had been in a very long time.

The time for his revenge, it seemed, was not far off. At least he could take comfort in the fact that very soon, MI6 would be very sorry to have pissed him off, to have used and abused him in the way that they had.

………………………………………………………………………

Alex woke up around noon. He stood blearily, and was relieved by the realization that he hadn't had another nightmare. It seemed he had been too tired to even dream. Jack would have just been more concerned and frightened by it.

When he went downstairs, Jack was making lunch – nothing fancy, just sandwiches. They looked delicious.

"Hey Alex, I figured you would be out until tonight," Jack said. "I can make you a PB ad J if you want."

"I got it," Alex said with a smile, grabbing two more pieces from the loaf Jack had our. Alex knew some of his bruises from the fight on the plane were definitely beginning to show, and that Jack was watching the ever-darkening spot on his chin and eye where he had gotten hit.

But instead of voicing her worry, or trying to get Alex to talk about it, his guardian – a hybrid of sister and mother, best friend and roommate, hugged him tightly and started the process of heating water to make hot cocoa. Neither of them said anything for a moment, trying to ignore the knowledge that only an hour ago, neither of them had thought they would ever see the other again.

On the other hand, no words needed to be spoken. Jack was glad Alex was alive, and Alex was so glad to see Jack again.

Jack finally broke the silence when he sat down with his sandwich and took a sip of the delicious and warm hot chocolate, telling Alex everything that had happened since he had been gone. Their neighbor had gotten a terrier… the woman across the street had twins… Jack had signed up for night courses in French, so now they had another language in common that they could converse in…

Alex listened. He was content to sit and hear Jack's voice again.

For a moment, looking up at Omar Shalom in some godforsaken basement underneath a dingy hospital in Gaza, Alex had been sure that he would never see his guardian again.

Hearing her now… it was better than anything. It was soothing. She didn't ask about his missions.

A year ago, they had had a fight. A vicious and emotionally exhausting fight; Jack wanted Alex to see a therapist, and talk to someone. Alex stubbornly refused to talk at all. Finally, Jack had agreed not to press him for details he couldn't give, and to take what he could without prying for more.

Right now, Alex didn't have anything. He just wanted to close his eyes, and remember for a second – damn it, just one second! – how it felt to be safe again. To be secure.

"Back to bed," Jack ordered immediately when Alex's head nearly hit the table. She swept the mug away from Alex despite his minute protests, and shooed him upstairs.

"We can talk more when you wake up, if you want to," Jack said firmly. "But you look like you haven't slept in weeks, and its only going to be worse if you don't sleep."

Alex obediently crawled into bed after changing into his pyjamas. He was apprehensive about the idea of sleeping. The first night he had stayed with Yassen after their escape from Scorpia, he had woken up trembling uncontrollably, with the taste of vomit in his mouth. His throat was sore, and he knew he had been screaming.

Yassen said nothing about it the next morning, but when he went to sleep the next night, Alex noticed the washcloth the assassin had left for him on the table.

Either he was trying to help, in his own emotionally unavailable way, or he understood how unpleasant it was to try and get back to sleep after a nightmare while still covered in sick.

It had been the same every night since, and Alex had the sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the knowledge that he had killed several people – the fact that he had no idea how many didn't exactly help – during his escape. Yassen would have said it was necessary, but Alex couldn't agree.

Somehow, he drifted off to sleep despite his worries. He just hoped that Jack came home _after _his nightmare. What he would do from then on… Alex preferred not to think about that just yet.

……………………………………………………………………

Alex was awoken by a harsh sound. He shot up in bed, trying to locate its origin, and sat back in relief when he realized what it was.

The phone was ringing.

Alex briefly debated leaving it be, knowing full well it was MI6 on the other side of the line, and he wasn't in the mood to deal with his 'bosses' right now.

He knew he was acting childish, stupid even. If MI6 wanted to talk with him and he kept ignoring them, they would just drag him in by force. It wasn't like they couldn't, or wouldn't. He might have been a child, but in their eyes, he was an agent.

On the third ring, Alex groaned and went over to the phone. He didn't _really _want MI6 agents knocking down the door. Jack would kill him.

"Hello?" he asked, dreading the icy voice of Blunt or Jones coming from the receiver.

"Hey Alex!"

Alex brightened considerably at the sound of the female voice – a voice that was decidedly not icy or official - on the other end of the receiver.

"Sabina!" He exclaimed, a goofy smile spreading across his face. All the tension left his body in a rush. He hadn't talked to Sabina in what felt like ages. The last time they had spoken was the day MI6 had grabbed him from his house, and Sabina had told him she was coming to London soon.

"Who else, silly?" Sabina said. "Anyway, I've been in London for a few days, trying to contact you, but your guardian had said you were gone, so I figured something had come up, and I _was _having lunch with this _gorgeous _Italian guy – I think he was nineteen-"

"Isn't nineteen a little young?" Alex asked, teasing. He heard Sabina laugh on the other end of the phone, and his heart jumped against his ribs.

"Well, maybe," she said. "But he was rather annoying, so I told him to piss off, and now I have no one to spend the day with, and then I heard that you were back in town when I called your guardian earlier today, and she said you were asleep. But now you're awake, and you're way better than some crummy Italian anyway."

"Are you asking me out on a date?" Alex asked, raising one of his eyebrows in an unknowing but almost perfect imitation of Yassen Gregorovitch. He had the sneaking suspicion that she was, in fact, asking him out, but he wanted to be sure.

"Finally, the boy catches on!" Sabina answered, and they both laughed.

"Sure, where did you want to meet?"

"I'm at an ice cream parlor right now, so we might as well meet up here," Sabina answered.

"Great, I'll see you soon!" Alex answered, and after getting the details of where the ice cream place was, and scribbling a quick note for Jack, he was on his bike, all the while, his stomach fluttering like he had a colony of butterflies in it.

Alex could have laughed at the normality of it all. Him flipping out over something as mundane and normal as a date, leaving a note to his guardian that he might be out late… it reeked of everyday life.

_But it's not really mundane, is it? _Alex thought to himself as he dodged a car. _It's a date with Sabina. It's anything but normal. Then again, one minute I'm scared of the dark and every nightmare that comes with it, and the next I'm giddy with joy that I'm going to see Sabina. It's kind of mental._

Alex decided that there was probably something dangerously unbalanced in his psyche.

It didn't take long for Alex to get to the ice cream parlor. It was called Oddono's Gelati, or something of the sort. Sabina was sitting at one of the small round tables inside, scooping the last of what looked like bright purple ice cream from a cup. The parlor was small and crammed with bright colors on everything from the walls and chairs to the ice cream itself.

"Long time no see," Sabina said, grinning, and she kissed him over the table.

Alex blushed. Sabina's mouth still tasted like the ice cream, sweet and tart. There was a rush of adrenaline he felt at kissing her, a burst of pleasure that he figured was what heroin addicts felt when they shot up.

"You aren't... working today, are you?" Sabina asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Absolutely not," Alex said, and he kissed her back, because it felt like the right thing to do. Sabina's smile returned, wider than ever, and Alex's suspicion was verified.

"So, what were your plans for today?"

"Well, I thought we could go to the park, or something thereabouts," Sabina said, gesturing to her own bike, leaning against the brightly painted table. "It's been ages since I've gotten you all to myself like this, without, you know, total waves or gang members, or explosions getting in the way."

Alex had to agree. It was good just to see Sabina again, to talk to her. It was later in the afternoon, but they had hours and hours yet before the sun started to set.

The two of them took off, biking through the streets until they found a quiet grassy park to sit together and talk.

"So how have you been?" Alex asked as they settled in, lying next to each other on the fresh class. Sabina was sitting closer to him than was perhaps strictly necessary, not that the thought registered in Alex's head as any kind of complaint.

"Not much, really," Sabina said. "My mom's working on a new line, and my father is following up on some major story in Uganda. Some sort of diplomatic talks that are starting over some conflict. But lets not talk about that – I hear it constantly from my dad without needing to bring it up anywhere else. What have you been up to? Where have you been?"

"Well, Mi6 had agreed to leave me alone," Alex began.  
"Except they clearly didn't," Sabina said thoughtfully.

"They did give me a whole year, plus a couple of months," Alex said fairly. "That whole business with McCain was the last mission I went on for them, and that was before I turned fifteen, and I've been sixteen for five months now."

"A whole year and a half," Sabina said, not sounding impressed.

"They got some sort of threat, and wanted to drag me in for extra training," Alex said. "Turns out they just sent me on another mission."

"So where did you go?" Sabina asked.

"Egypt," Alex said, hoping this was at least a better answer than Gaza.

"Did you save the world?" Sabina asked.

"No," Alex said quietly. "I failed, and a lot of people got killed because of it."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," Alex sighed.

"Then let's not."

Alex felt a flood of relief and gratitude for his… girlfriend? Definitely more than friend, that was for sure. He just didn't know how exactly to categorize their relationship.

_Maybe it's better this way, _Alex thought.

"You know I love you right?"

The words sounded so natural, so right, Alex could almost believe that she had been saying this to him for a lifetime.

"I know," he said, and hugged her closer. "I love you too."  
There was no way any good was going to come of this, but Alex was selfish enough not to care. Not right now, at least. He wanted to forget, just for one afternoon, that he was a spy, and that the world was a dark and dangerous place. Surely the divine powers that be could grant him one afternoon of peace, of ignorance, of shelter?

It seemed that for once, the universe was on his side. Alex and Sabina talked about lighthearted and trivial things, carefully avoiding the topic of Sabina's home life and Alex's 'job'. The sun sank ever lower, until it had almost disappeared below the horizon.

"You'll be here tomorrow, right?" Sabina asked uncertainly.

"MI6 is probably going to want to see me about everything that happened," Alex said, reading the clear disappointment on Sabina's face. "But I will be here."

"Good," she said, and kissed him.

They biked home in companionable silence. Jack hugged Alex firmly when he finally got back home, clearly having been worried that her charge would vanish on her again. Alex assured her that he was in fact, still there, and went up to bed without eating – he knew he was just going to have to taste anything he ate at dinner sometime in the night.

He woke up vomiting anyway, shaking like an addict suffering withdrawl, his eyes not seeing his room, but a cave in the middle of the Sinai desert.

……………………………………….......………………………

"_How are you doing Alex?" The voice was pleasant, calm, boring._

"_Spiritually, existentially, psychologically…?" Alex asked, wondering what she was getting at. The guidance counselor, whose name was Rachel, laughed._

"_Fair enough," she said. "Any of the above."_

_Alex fought the urge to roll his eyes and - barely – succeeded. He mentally ran over a list of possible answers, wondering which one would be the most truthful while being the least incriminating._

"_Tired," he finally settled on._

"_Do you know why you're here?" Rachel asked._

"_I'm going to take a stab in the dark here and say my English grade?" Alex said hopefully._

"_Wrong," Rachel said._

"_So why am I here?" Alex asked._

"_Well, I've been trying to meet with every child in the school, but as you can imagine, it's difficult to get that kind of face time with everyone in the school."_

"_I can imagine," Alex said dryly. _Why was he here?

"_How is everything at home?" she asked, as if changing the subject. "I heard your uncle died in your freshman year?"_

"_Yeah," Alex said, kind of guarded. He didn't want to talk about Ian with this woman. _

"_So who do you live with now?"_

"_My guardian, Jack," he said. Surely the school knew that? "She's been with me since I was a kid; sort of a live in babysitter, and then more of a roommate, when I got old enough not to need one," Alex said._

"_And how do you get on with Jack? Are you close?"_

"_Jack is one of my best friends," Alex said. "We've always been close."_

"_Can you go to her if you have problems?" _

_Alex raised his eyebrows, and shifted guiltily. Yeah, he went to her when things came up at school. She had been helping him try and pass English and History, and it had been Jack he had gone to for advice on his budding relationship with Sabina._

_But no matter how much she tried to get him to open up, he refused to talk about MI6 with her. He never brought up his missions, and Jack had learned to leave him be. _

"_Yeah, I guess," he said._

"_And what about your friends at school?"_

"_I've got the kids on my football team," Alex said. "And Tom."_

"_Your advisor tells me you're not very close with anyone," Rachel observed._

_Alex's guard was immediately up again. She had been talking to his teachers? Just how much were people talking about him behind his back?_

_He shrugged, trying to make it look like he didn't much care._

"_I keep to myself," he said. Rachel looked skeptical, but she looked back down at her pad of paper._

"_He was also worried about the number of absences you've had."_

And there it was_, Alex thought. The _real_ reason he had been dragged out of Physics._

"_I was ill a lot after my uncle died," he said. The excuse sounded weak even to his ears._

"_You were in school for maybe three weeks of the term," Rachel said critically._

"_Like I said, I was out sick," Alex answered._

"_You come back from being out 'sick' as you say, covered in bruises," the guidance councilor shot back._

"_I'm clumsy," Alex offered, knowing it was useless. He had better reflexes than every single one of the kids in school. He hadn't ever even so much as stumbled once at school. _

"_Alex, do you do drugs?"_

_Alex almost burst out laughing at the sheer incredibility of this question. He briefly considered pretending he had no idea what she meant, but he was done playing this woman's game._

"_No, I don't," he said coldly. "I don't drink alcohol, I don't smoke at all – cigarettes or pot - and I've never shot up in my life. I would have thought the administration of a school would be above some stupid rumor, but I guess I can't be surprised considering how much else you get wrong."_

_He stood and walked out. He knew he was making it worse for himself, but somehow he didn't care. His teachers would be watching him even more carefully now..._

………………………………………………………………………

That had been almost a year ago, at the beginning of his second year in high school, about a month before he had turned sixteen. Now, Alex thought, he would take the guidance councilor over Alan Blunt any day.

He had been able to spend most of his sophmore year actually at school, which was an unending relief. He had gone a whole year and a half without having MI6 interfere with his life – he'd actually managed to turn sixteen, an age he had never thought he would get to. Odds even said he might make it to seventeen if he played his cards right.

If he was lucky, Alex thought dryly, he might live long enough to be able to _legally _enlist with MI6.

At any rate, he wished he was doing anything other than sitting in the upper floors of the Royal and General at five in the morning, getting drilled by two of the people he disliked most in the world.

"We need you to tell us everything that happened," Mrs. Jones said when he had first walked into the office.

And so Alex had talked and talked, for over half an hour. He went over every detail he could remember, including the dream that had allowed him to figure it all out.

He retold his escape from Scorpia with Yassen, leaving out his nightmares and the fact that he had killed people. Or that Yassen had actually seemed understanding about it all.

He finally finished telling them about the hijacking, and shut up with relief – his throat was starting to get sore.

"Your name will be left out of the news reports," Mrs. Jones said when he was done. "It took a bit of doing, but no one will be telling the story of the young child that beat a bunch of terrorists on a plane from Tunisia. Your fellow passengers have been told that your family does not want you mentioned, and you just want to go back to school and pretend nothing happened.

"I _would_ like that," Alex said, hoping they caught his point. Mrs. Jones smiled sympathetically.

"Is Snake okay?" Alex asked. Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones looked confused.

"He was in the unit I trained with at Brecon Beacons," Alex said. "He got shot in the shoulder…"

"Ah yes, Mr. Saks will be fine," Mr. Blunt said. "He was due for a good amount of leave anyway," he added, dismissing the issue with a wave of his hand.

"We have received intelligence that Osama Bin Laden organized this hijacking," Mrs. Jones said. "We increased the number of troops we have in Afghanistan, and were working more closely with the United States on the issue."

"Whoever gave them their orders knew who I was," Alex said. "He told them not to-"

Something occurred to him. Why would it matter whether or not they killed him if their intention was the fly the plane into a building?

"We will be working on that," Mrs. Jones said. "It is a disturbing idea."

"And the bomb?" Alex pressed.

"It was exploded above Jerusalem by Israel's anti-missile technology," Blunt put in. "So far, they are calling it an attack from Hammas, still refusing to admit to the international community that they possess nuclear weapons. The United Nations has approved millions of dollars in aid to ensure that there will be as little lasting damage as possible. It may be too late to stop tensions from igniting, but war has not been declared, yet."

"And Yedit?"

"Is fine, and back with Mossad."

Alex nodded and sat back. It looked like things had stabilized somewhat. He was glad for Yedit – she was finally back where she wanted to be. There was just one thing still on his mind.

"And the crazy guy making threats on my life?" he asked. He wondered what the nervous look exchanged between the heads of MI6 meant. Nothing good for him, he was sure.

"We have no new information, though another agent was found dead yesterday," Mrs. Jones said.

"It is still not safe for you Alex, and until it is, we want you to go on another mission for us," Blunt said. Alex's eyes were on Mrs. Jones, who flinched at the words. He didn't like what that meant about his chances of coming home alive from this next mission were.

"The fact is, we still don't have any clue about whoever is out there, and you could easily be targeted," Jones said apologetically.

"What's he mission?" Alex asked, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

"Well, it's a mission only you can do," Blunt answered. "Have you heard of a man named Joseph Kony?"

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Alex couldn't place it. He shook his head.

"Joseph Kony is a lunatic and a murderer," Mrs. Jones said. "He is the head of the Lord's Resistance Army in Uganda. It is in a state of armed resistance against the government, and his hope is to establish a theocracy in Uganda," Mrs. Jones explained.

"They abduct children to serve as soldiers in the army, and are particularly known for cutting off the lips and ears of anyone who attempts to run away, or of victims in refugee camps they target," Blunt continued.

Alex shuddered.

"The International Criminal Court has issued arrest warrants for Kony and his commanders, charging them with crimes against humanity and war crimes," Jones said. "The LRA, which is made up of mostly children, has perpetrated massacres on the orders of Kony and his deputies, and most of the thousands of children that had been kidnapped and forced to serve in the LRA are blackmailed or threatened into doing so, and are too scared to run. Hundreds of thousands more have been maimed or killed by the fighting. Millions have been displaced by it."

"I can imagine why the ICC wants to prosecute these guys then," Alex said weakly. He looked up at the heads of MI6.

"What do you want me to do?"

He was scared. This was so far out of his league it was almost funny. They were sending him to do something about _genocide. _This wasn't just information gathering, or putting up concealed cameras. This was going deep undercover into an organization just as dangerous as Scorpia, but about a hundred times more brutal.

"Britain and the United States are preparing the most recent round of negotiations with Kony," Blunt said. "They will be a complete farce. Our intention is to send in an agent – you – who can get close enough to Kony to get a tracking device on him. No one outside the LRA has seen him in years. And MI6 is going to take a leaf from Mossads book, because this conflict really has been ridiculously long and untended too."

"You want to assassinate him," Alex said quietly.

"Exactly," Blunt answered, pleased that Alex had cottoned on.

Alex stood.

"Well, I'm sorry, but my answer is going to have to be no," Alex said quietly.

"You don't care that you could save millions of people with one mission?" Mrs. Jones asked.

"Find someone else," Alex snapped. "You managed plenty fine without me once, you can do it now."

"Alex, a child is the only person who could go undercover into the LRA," Mrs. Jones said calmly. "You have the best chance of getting close enough to tag him."

"No," Alex said firmly. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm sixteen. Sixteen! I'm not supposed to have the world resting on my shoulders. I'm not supposed to be Atlas."

"By saying no, you are standing by, and letting children younger than sixteen be kidnapped, mutilated, sexually abused, and tortured," Blunt said calmly. "A month or two in hell cannot be so bad compared to saving thousands of children much worse fates."

Alex didn't even respond. He slammed the door behind him.

Blunt calmly reached for his phone to call security, but Tulip held him back.

"Let him go Alan," she said quietly. "He's been home for all of a day. We can ask him in a week, or two. The talks are not so immediate that we have to send him in, now."

"It will take time to get him adjusted to the role before we can send him in," Blunt said, but he relented.

"One week," he issued his final verdict. It fell with the heaviness of a death sentence.

Alex Rider had one week before his world would be destroyed.

………………………………………………………………………

Alex was biking home as fast as he possibly could, not caring about the early morning traffic that he was swerving dangerously through. Horns honked, breaking the sleepy, post-dawn silence that filled the air.

And Alex couldn't care less. He just wanted to get home.

_They are particularly known for cutting off the lips and ears… _Blunt's matter-of-fact voice echoed in his ears over and over again.

No way he could do this. This was just far, _far _beyond anything he was willing to do.

Had they told him to go back to Scorpia, it might have even been better. Scorpia made calculated, precise movements. This LRA – they just killed people and maimed them. There was no reason to it.

Hell, had they told him to run back to Hammas, he might have chosen that over joining the LRA.

Alex didn't know if MI6 would pull him in and force him to go with them, but he had a sneaking suspicion that they might.

He had to get out of London.

He had to get far enough away that they wouldn't find him or Jack again, and he could live a reasonably normal life, and _not _end up getting sent into a war zone.

Maybe he and Jack could go to France. Or maybe even move back to the States, so she could be near her family. He would need to get a visa though, to stay there to study.

And they would have to move fast, before MI6 knew what was happening,

So intent was he on making his plans, Alex never noticed the car on the otherwise deserted road until it was too late. It crashed into the side of his bike, and kept moving, not even bothering to stop.  
Alex was thrown off of the bike, landing on the pavement. He lay there, dazed and hurting. His right side felt like – well, like he had been hit by a car. He didn't think he had any broken bones – the car had screeched to almost a stop before hitting him and revving up again – but it still hurt like hell. After a few minutes of trying to catch his breath, he pulled himself into a sitting position. He saw his bike laying on the street, mangled beyond proper repair, and groaned. The sound drew another burst of pain from his side.

It took Alex another few moments to work the button on his pants pocket to get out his cell phone. He pulled it out, and fought the urge to groan again – it was useless, having been crushed first by the impact of the car, and then by his landing.

Just as he was contemplating having to walk all the way to a hospital, a pair of joggers rounded the corner.

"Oh my god!" the female part of the pair said, rushing forward to help Alex up. "Are you alright?"

Alex nodded blearily. "I didn't see the car," he said, gesturing to his bike by way of explanation. The man had his cell phone out and was dialing.

"Just keep breathing," he advised. "I'm calling 911."

………………………………………………………………………

"_I want to know what happened. Now, if you please."_

_The voice was filled with menace, dark with anger. John Rider met the speaker's eyes, not caring anymore. It was over, anyway._

_Dr. Three had never seen so much emotion in the man's face before. John Rider was always careful with his emotions, impossible to read. Now, grief radiated from him like heat from a furnace._

_Which was why he was here, sitting in a room surrounded by the entire board of Scorpia, his hands tied tightly to the arms of the chair he was sitting in. The restraints were hardly necessary, though._

_Once, they might have been. A month ago, if he had been found out, John would have killed all of these people without a second thought and run for it._

_Now?_

_Now the situation had changed dramatically._

"_Speak, Rider."_

_The voice was Australian. The speaker had many names, but in this particular circle, he was known as Justin. He felt a small degree of compassion for the agent, but not enough to let any seep into his words._

"_I was ordered by MI6 to infiltrate Scopria," John said, and he laughed, shaking his head. "My wife, she told me not to. She told me that she needed me with her. And I knew it wasn't fair to keep gambling with my life, not when she was a part of it.. So I told them no."_

"_I am guessing that your decision was overridden?" That was Rothman. John just laughed again._

"_What could I do? What they asked of me was a mission that would take maybe five years of my life away from me. They had promised me, when the contacted me after I got out of jail, that if I worked for them, they would get me my life back. That was all I wanted. I wanted to keep saving England, because that was who I was."_

_John looked down. His eyes were shining – he was actually crying! _

"_I convinced Helen that this would be good for us," he continued. "I promised her it would turn out okay, and this would be the last time."_

"_So you came to us, once again, on MI6's orders," Three continued. "You contacted MI6 at every opportunity to give them our secrets, while rising highly in our ranks. You deceived and betrayed us."_

"_Yes."_

_There was no fear, no shame in the admission. It was almost like he was daring Scorpia to do their worst. Like he _wanted _them to kill him._

_Perhaps he did, Levi thought, carefully watching the agent's devastated face. Even now, despite the fact that he seemed devastated, John Rider seemed to be in control. _


	3. Declaration of War

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Declaration of War

**I have a Genius – one of those Greco-Roman spirits of creativity – living in the walls of my house. It feeds on reviews… so keep the Genius well fed, and the updates will keep coming (hint, hint).**

**By the way – just throwing this out there: When I updated chapter one, it increased in length my 4,000 words. Yes. The **_**elaboration **_**on my**_** digression **_**was longer than some of the **_**whole chapters **_**I have posted on fanfiction.**

**Holy shit.**

**Just… don't expect updates like that all the time, okay?**

**To anyone who has a problem with Kurst's fantasies, and thinks I'm seriously messed up in the head…**

**In the course of four months, I've tortured Alex Rider, had Salazar Slytherin sent to a mental institution, killed off all of Ravenclaws family and friends, and forced her to watch, and had Hufflepuff raped (go and try and enjoy A History of Magic without wincing. I dare you). **

**I'm evil.**

**Deal with it. **

**=)**

**Have a super day!**

**~InK **

………………………………………………………………………

"_Then you came straight to me," Levi said, speaking for the first time since he had called the board members together, filling in the rest of the story. "And you told me that you wished to clear the air surrounding your employment. I saw fit to restrain you because of what you had told me, and called the rest of the board members here."_

"_MI6 had recalled me;" John said. "I was to be captured at Malta, and that was to be the end of it. Forever. They would give me a new identity, to start over in the army. I was still young, still capable. I would repeat my rise in the ranks, and continue what I had started."_

"_And yet you are here," Levi said, watching John carefully. _

"_You know I went back home whenever I was on leave," John said quietly. "I spent three months of bliss with my wife, ignored by MI6, ignored by the danger that constantly follows me, because Scopria was watching my back, even when I wasn't on active duty."_

"_A fine way to repay that debt," Three snapped._

"_Helen had given birth," John said, seemingly ignoring Three. "Last year. My son wasn't even a year old when I was recalled. And I thought to myself that this would be wonderful. My son would never become involved in MI6, and I could raise him properly; he would not have a childhood where his father was never there – either because he was a spy, or because he was an assassin. Helen had gotten her PhD, and he was sure to be the most brilliant kid in his year."_

"_You never told us of this," Rothman said._

"_Why would I?" John asked. "Why drag Alex into the mess that my life became? It was simpler, safer, to let him exist apart from MI6, apart from you, apart from everything I did."_

"_And then MI6 destroyed that," John continued, his face contorting with rage. "I was ordered to return to you, after filing my final report. They wanted to send me back to you at Albert Bridge. And I refused, point blank. They threatened not to give me the new identity, to take away that hope that I had for reviving my old life. I told them they could shove it, that I no longer cared. I had a family, and it was no longer my right to gamble with my life."_

"_What happened?" Rothman's voice was filled with uncertainty. John laughed again, a chilling sound, without mirth. It raised the hair on the backs of all their necks – it was very clear that Rider had come at least partially unhinged by what MI6 had done to him. _

"_They threatened me. They said that if I didn't go, they would take Alex away, and give him to my brother to care for, and hide Helen so completely, I would never find her."_

_His hands curled into fists._

"_I thought they were bluffing. I thought if I was just more stubborn than they were, I could beat them. And even if they did, I thought I might have the chance of finding Helen and Alex again."_

_He laughed again. _

"_I was so stupid. So _fucking_ stupid," John snarled. "I forced my way out of the building, but by the time I had gotten to my house…"_

_And then the tears were back. Pain obscured everything, blocking his throat, his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe, to think. He didn't want to have to relive it, to see his home burning before his eyes, to see –_

"_They killed her." _

………………………………………………………….…………

The explosion would later be blamed on a faulty gas valve that happened to run near a plug in. The police were aware of how flimsy an excuse this was, of course, but there were paid a great deal of money to stay away from this particular warehouse on the outskirts of Prague.

So when it blew up one bright Tuesday morning, they asked minimal questions, and had determined the explosion an accident before the police chief was sitting down to brunch.

Scorpia owned the large warehouse, and it was one of the major centers run by Zeljan Kurst for drug trafficking.

Before the police had left the scene at mid morning, however, Kurst already knew who was responsible for the explosion.

Evert Zaaiman was actually beginning to be somewhat of a problem, he reflected, looking down at the file in front of him, his eyes fixed on a picture of the South African. The man's face was face staring right back at him, and Kurst felt the beginnings of serious annoyance.

He had lost over ten million dollars this morning, all thanks to this ridiculous young upstart from South Africa.

_No matter, _he decided, closing the file with a snap.

If Zaaiman was looking to make war against Scorpia, Scorpia would be more than prepared to oblige him. And then they would be perfectly happy to watch him die screaming in a pool of his own blood, surrounded by his own amputated appendages and watching his own intestines being torn out millimeter by millimeter.

"_Please god no!" The man was screaming as Zaljan Kurst carved a sizable incision in his stomach. A sinister smile played across Kursts lips. The drugs being fed into the man's system would ensure that he was awake and conscious for this, and that he wouldn't die too quickly. He was strapped down to the sterilized metal table. Well, parts of him were. His left arm from the elbow and his right foot, cut off mid-calf, were lying on the floor. One of his eyes dangled out of its socket, held to his face only by a few sensitive nerves. _

"_Lets have an anatomy lesson," Kurst proposed brightly, ignoring his cries._

"_Please, whatever you want! I have_ _information-"_

_Kurst held up a gloved hand, already red from the man's blood._

"_I do not care. You will not buy your way out of this punishment."_

_The man screamed, despair, fear and pain mingling together. Kurst's smile widened at the sound. _

"_This is the small intestine," he said, gently picking up the named organ. The man screamed, and thrashed, shutting his eyes so that he could not see what the man was doing. It didn't much help. _

_Kurst gave the organ a small squeeze, and was rewarded by another scream. _

"_My dear student, however do you expect to learn anything without looking?" he asked dangerously._

Kurst smiled calmly (the same disturbing smile he had worn as he had torn a man's organs out of his still conscious body) and picked up his phone and dialed the number he knew would allow him to reach the private line of Levi Kroll. They needed to have a little chat about the litter manner of Evert Zaaiman.

With any luck, he would die in a very painful manner.

………………………………………………………………………

The paramedics had come, and Alex steadfastly refused to be taken to a hospital. The medic that checked him out told him that nothing was broken, as Alex had suspected, but he was going to have some spectacular bruising.

_It could have been a lot worse_, Alex reflected, listening to the paramedic tell him for what had to be the thousandth time that he had the luck of the devil. The couple that had called them had insisted on waiting with him until the paramedics arrived on the scene, but had vanished before actually talking to them.

Alex turned his attention back to the van. He hadn't even managed to get the license plate number – he hadn't even seen it coming, and it was gone without a trade. There was an impractical number of black SUV's in London for the police to go tracking down every one.

He was almost ready to believe it had been an unfortunate accident, and he would have let it go at that. But nothing in his life ever seemed to amount to pure coincidence. Alex _knew - _without any evidence, or anything else to support the claim - something was up.

He had gotten the same bad feeling about Damian Cray, and he'd learned since then to trust his instincts. There were times when he lived or died based on accepting them, and he couldn't question them now.

Alex doubted he would be able to go to MI6 with his theory. They wouldn't believe him, just like they hadn't believed Cray might be the murdering psychopath that he turned out to be. And even if they did listen, Alex didn't want their help. He didn't want to become further indebted to them.

Especially not when he was intending to run.

Jack finally showed up, looking frazzled. She acquiesced to Alex's request to leave without going to the hospital, however, after he gave hr a meaningful look and told her they had to talk in private. She signed the AMA form that the paramedic insisted upon, and drove Alex the rest of the way home. There was no point trying to salvage his bike – Alex had taken a look at it, and it was twisted beyond repair.

_It doesn't matter, _Alex thought, a little wistfully. _It's just a bike, and we wouldn't be able to take it with us anyway. _

As they drove, Alex started to plan. They would have to buy the tickets at the very last minute, however they traveled – they couldn't risk MI6 stopping them. And as soon as they got out of the country…

_Then what, genius? How long will it take for MI6 to concoct some bullshit story about how you've betrayed England to Scorpia as an excuse to drag your sorry ass all the way back to London? _Alex challenged himself. _You don't even have any money! How are you and Jack going to get a house? How will you go to school? You can't run forever!_

_Watch me, _Alex snarled back to the dissenting voice in his head. He would do whatever it took to keep him and Jack safe.

_Sabina… _Alex thought desperately. She was going to kill him for this.

_She'll understand, _Alex thought hopefully, finally facing Jack in the living room. She had her hands on her hips, and she looked more likely than a dragon to breathe fire at the moment.

"Explain," she said.

And Alex did. He told her about the threat that MI6 had received, the dead agents that had shown up. And he explained that MI6's solution was to ship him off to Uganda.

"Mental," Jack finally said when he was done. "You're not seriously thinking of going, are you?" she demanded. Alex shook his head, immediately allaying her fears.

"Not this time," he said. "This time, I'm going to run."

Jack grinned. "My parents are always harping on about how they want to meet the kid I've basically adopted as my own," she said. "I guess this is as good a time as any to go to the States for a bit. MI6 can't pretend to be shipping you off for your own good when you're in D.C and the threat is here in London!"

"You really want me to come with you?" Alex asked. Jack just looked at him, exasperated.

"No, silly, I was just going to leave you to the wolves," she said, pulling him into a tight hug. "Like it or not, you're as good as a Starbright now, and that means if I'm going home, you're coming with me. I know it'll be hard, going on such short notice, but if I call my parents, I'm sure they can look into schooling, and help us find an apartment to rent…"

And away Jack went, starting the process of packing. "We should probably keep the house," she yelled up to Alex from the kitchen. "In case you want to come back. It's yours officially, though the _bank-" _Jack somehow put a world of loathing into the one word – "will probably have control over it legally until you turn 18…"

"I think the bigger problem is staying away from MI6 long enough to convince them to leave me be for now, without them getting the Americans to extradite me, or something," Alex commented. Jack frowned, but as she was about to speak, her cell phone rang. She jumped, picked it up at once, and put it to her ear.

Alex didn't listen to the conversation, but instead headed upstairs to continue packing. Downstairs, he could hear that Jack was growing increasingly excited the longer it went on. Finally, he couldn't help but try and soothe his curiosity by listening in.

"Thank you so much Derek! Yes, yes, this does make us even, and I might even owe you one sometime," Jack was saying. "Thanks. Bye!"

"What was that?" Alex asked, coming back downstairs. Jack waved away his question, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

"At the very least, now we won't have to worry about you getting shipped back to England for entering the United States unlawfully," she said brightly. "Legally speaking, foreign minors can live with relatives in the United States for twelve moths to go to school."

"Brilliant!" Alex said, and then he realized something. "But, um, Jack; we're not related."

Jack blushed the color of her hair. Alex was shocked – he hadn't known she could even do that.

"Well, Alex, I did mean for it to be a surprise, and I didn't know if the paperwork would even get through, and I figured, the less I talked about it at all, the less likely MI6 would catch wind of it," she said, looking slightly guilty. "I called an old boyfriend of mine, Derek, from Law School, who owes me a _big _favor-"

"Do I even want to know?" Alex asked. Jack blushed again.

"Probably not," she admitted as Alex made a gagging sound. "Anyway, he works in child services, and I called him up, and asked him if he could help me arrange a more – quiet – um, process, as it were, and I explained to him the difficulty of your situation, though not in as many words-"

"There is a point to this, right?" Alex asked. Jack grinned.

"Well, to shorten a very long story, he called a favor from a friend of _his _who had to get his sister to do some digging around, and then _she _had to call in _another _friend who works in the office of public records who very kindly let a certain document fall into her paper shredder without anyone the wiser, which meant that the Royal and General was never notified when-"

"Um, Jack?" Alex asked.

"Oh right!" Jack said cheerfully. "Anyway, the paperwork went through without a hitch, and, again, legally speaking, I've adopted you. I hope you don't mind, but I was sitting at home wondering how I could help you, back when you got kidnapped by that terrible McCain fellow…"

"Jack, you've been working on this for two years?" Alex asked, hardly able to believe it. Jack nodded. "I mean, I know I'm not really mother material, and I'm still really young, but you're almost of age yourself anyway, and I figured it wouldn't change much anyway, just what the official documents say."

"I hope you don't mind," she added, offhand. "I know I didn't tell you, and you're sick of people messing with your lives without asking your opinion, but I thought it would be better for you…"

Alex was quiet for a moment, and then he broke out into a grin even wider than Jack's.

"I think its brilliant," he said, meaning every word. "You're brilliant. I never even _thought _we could force them to abide by the law!"

Jack hugged him, looking relieved, and then guilty again.

"Well, technically, it wasn't _completely _legal, because the Royal and General had sole custody of you – _What _Ian was thinking, by the way, I shall never know – and my friend sort of had to make the records disappear, because even though it was highly unusual, and wouldn't have stood up in a child services hearing, it was still all perfectly legal. Of course, I'm sure we could have done the same thing by going to court, but MI6 might have stopped us and…"

"Breathe, Jack," Alex said. He felt a wave of tension dissipate. This was good. There were still a lot of major hurdles to cross if they were going to make it out of the country, but this was an excellent first step.

"Now all that's left is getting across the border without MI6 noticing, and they won't be able to touch you for a whole year," she said. "There's nothing they can do."

Alex felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. There were plenty of thinks MI6 could do… he was fixating on a mental image of a bunch of CIA agents dragging him back onto a plane to London… but that was mental, of course. Jack was right. Legally, they couldn't do anything, and if they decided to try anyway, Jack knew the law backwards and forwards.

"Do I get to hear how you got this Derek to owe you suck a big favor?" Alex asked, trying to ignore the bad vibe this whole venture was giving him.

"No!"

………………………………………………………….…………

_John waited at the end of Albert Bridge, feeling his heart pound like a hammer. Two MI6 agents were holding him roughly by the arms, and his wrists were handcuffed together behind him._

_He fixed his eyes on the agents of Scorpia, on the other side of the bridge. Was Yassen among them? John knew that if Yassen had even the slightest say in the matter, he would be, hiding somewhere among the shadows. He glanced into the trees, knowing –praying – that there _was _one Scorpia agent there._

_John had always felt guilty for lying to Yassen. He was a friend, not an enemy. John knew he was a killer, same as any other member of Scorpia, but it was difficult to hate him for it, as he did many of their other operatives. _

_Now, he wouldn't be lying anymore. He had contacted Scorpia from a secure line he had 'stolen' from Mrs. Jones. MI6 refused to help him, so he had turned to Scorpia._

_And they had agreed._

"_Move," the agents at his side pushed him forward. John started walking, slowly. _

_The congressmans son was getting closer. They were almost halfway across the bridge._

"_Something might go wrong," John muttered. The congressman's son kept looking forward, kept moving, but John saw that he had been heard. "Be ready to duck and run. If they fire, move around so they can't hit you."_

_Only fifteen yards away, concealed in the brush, the Scorpia sniper with his scope trained on John Rider was discovered by an MI6 agent._

_John was almost to the other side. He felt impatience welling up in his chest. Whoever was supposed to be firing the shot had to act – now – or the story would be unbelievable. MI6 had to leave this place with the knowledge that John Rider was dead._

_At the other end of the bridge, Tulip Jones saw the report that her agent sent along, and spoke two words into her walkie-talkie._

"_Shoot him."_

_The fight in the bushes was swift and brutal. The Scorpia assassin turned, slammed his fist into the agents face, and knifed him in the heart, all before the MI6 agent had the change to even draw and aim. _

_His movements quick and precise with the knowledge that he had little time left, the man named Anthony Howell readjusted his scope and fired._

_Fifteen yards away, the most skilled agent MI6 had ever hired stumbled and went down, dark red blood blooming at his back. _

_He didn't even cry out before he hit the ground, his pulse fluttering and then finally settling to a stop._

_Chaos broke out. The Scorpia agents opened fire on the MI6 operatives. The congressman's son made it to the waiting car, and was driven away in all haste. Within minutes, not a single MI6 agent was left on the bridge._

_Yassen Gregorovitch, hiding in the trees, cursed silently and turned away, refusing to face the truth in his mentors death. He took a deep, steadying breath, refusing to cry, refusing to feel the grief that threatened to take him over at the lost of his last and only friend._

_Yassen, like the MI6 and other Scorpia operatives on the scene, did not see the green sedan that paused halfway down the road. Nor did he see the two men, dressed entirely in black, their faces concealed in black ski masks, who loaded John Rider's corpse into the van, after searching for his pulse, and finding nothing._

_The van was driven directly to a Scorpia safehouse, just outside London. The men left the van in the underground lot and left. _

_Anthony Howell was the only member of Scorpia on the scene who knew what had happened to John's body, and he was the one who cautiously approached the van, about half an hour after it was parked. _

_Anthony pulled open the door and looked down at the face of one of his best mates in the world, and stuck a needle into his arm._

_Bit by bit, John Rider woke up. His hands clenched and unclenched, forcing feeling back into extremities. He looked at Anthony, who extended his hand to help him up, and grinned._

_It had all gone off without a hitch. _

_By midday, the dead man was enjoying tea with Levi Kroll._

_It was then that John decided once and for all to tell his employers why he wanted MI6 to fall._

………………………………………………………….……….

Three men making their way across the border between Mexico and California in a dark blue SUV were almost invisible against the night. They were shipping hundreds of thousands of dollars in weapons across the border into Mexico. They were in the last car in a caravan of five that had already slipped across the border over the course of the day.

They had made the trip several times before, over the course of the last month. They were selling weapons to various drug Cartels, and making millions of dollars.

The man who had employed them was named Evert Zaaiman. It had taken him less than a year to gain a near monopoly on weapons trade across the Mexican/American border. It was a very lucrative business, and it was one of the reasons he had shot to the top in Scorpia so quickly.

Two shots rang out in the deserted road, taking out the front wheels of he SUV. A team in all black advanced, guns at the ready.

The three men inside the SUV gathered their resources and took their assailants, guns blazing. Their shipment was already useless – they would never make it across the border now – but their objective in this kind of circumstance was clear – kill most of them, and capture a few, to find out who had blown up their operation.

An explosion rent the night, destroying the car and immediately killing the three weapons runners. What was left of the team in black disappeared into the night.

Drinking tea with his partner, Devon, in Vienna, Evert Zaaiman received the news, and smiled confidently.

"It has begun, my friend," he said. "They had taken the bait. I shall have my civil war in Scorpia, and you shall be able to duck out of the business with your pockets lined with gold, as you desire. After all, even the best deserve their peace after a lifetime of service, do they not?"

Zaaiman raised his glass of wine, toasting his colleague as he spoke.

"Kurst will have a very inventive and painful death planned for you by now," he said.

"Let the old man fantasize, Devon," Zaaiman waved away the concern. "At a certain point, you just become an old man ranting at passing cars. They were once brilliant men, but their time has past. Let the old dogs fight this war with whatever means they are familiar with. We are the ones who shall emerge victorious."

"So long as you remember that being rash is the same as being senile," Devon answered. "This is not a game to be played by the very old, but nor should it be dominated by the young. It requires care, skill."

"Which is why you are here," Zaaiman put in. "We are officially at war with Scorpia now. Your knowledge of the playing field should be enough to override even Scorpias home advantage."

The flattery had no effect, but the reason was sound enough, Devon thought. He was going to have to be careful around this man. He had his own reasons for defecting from the board, reasons he would never share in full, but he did not want to end up indebted to Zaaiman either.

However, this time, when Zaaiman raised a toast to their victory, he raised his glass as well, and drained it.

They had a long fight ahead of them.

………………………………………………………….…………

The man had dark black hair and glasses, and was dressed in a reasonably well-made suit, carrying a smart black briefcase, He could have passed as a relatively successful business agent, with one of those faces that never seems to stick in your head. He looked like any old office assistant, no part of him in any way unique.

That was how the man wanted it. When you are plotting the destruction of two powerful and massive agencies at the same time, it is imperative that you be someone that blends into the background.

The first stage of his plan was finished. MI6 knew who and what he was, and they knew he was after their blood. They were on their guard, looking for him in London. Which was good, because the man was no longer in England at all.

He was in an elevator in Washington D.C, carrying out the next stage of his plan. He had left a team of people loyal to the highest bidder in London to carry out the next stage on the European front. He had given them the order to move out while still in London, but it would take several days for their plan to come to fruition. His informants told him that he had no time to waste, so he had pushed his plans forward, and it would take them some extra time to compensate.

_And extra money, _the man thought, amused. Was there no one in the world who did _not _have a price for which they would sell their own souls? The thought made a smile twitch at the corner of his lips. Of course not. The world was run by greed, not altruism. Even he had once been a loving patriot.

Now, it was time to deal a blow against Scorpia, the bastards responsible for so many wrongs, the man wasn't sure if he even wanted to enumerate them all.

The elevator pinged as it reached the highest floor. The man stepped out, and climbed the set of stairs to his right that led up to the roof. Around him, the lights of D.C were turning on, creating a sea of slight below him.

The man barred the door from the outside, and went over to the edge of the roof. He opened the briefcase, revealing the sleek black parts for the sniper rifle concealed inside. The man took his time to lovingly examine every piece – not that he honestly thought that his dealer would have even tried to pass him a faulty gun; his care was born out of a genuine love for the weapon that would, with a tiny bit of pressure on the part of his fingers, become the death sentence for a man who deserved to die.

The man waited, his scope trained on the place where he knew his target would appear. It only took ten silent minutes of waiting before he did. A man just as non descript as himself, carrying a similar black briefcase. They could have been the same person.

The man fired. His target died.

He was downstairs and gone before the police arrived on the scene.

………………………………………………………….…………

_John Rider's voice was breathless and agonized. "They had Alex. I couldn't let them hurt him. I just –"_

_He shook his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were dry, and his face looked as if he had aged a hundred years in a moment. Grief had given way to unalterable rage. _

"_At first, I wanted to kill myself," he said matter-of-factly. "I nearly did it – sleeping pills and vodka; quick, easy, and quiet. I had already downed the vodka when I realized that I had no intention of making my death an easy thing for MI6. _

"_I forced myself to throw it all up. Then I wanted to kill the agent who was responsible for what happened. But when I found out-" again, that scary laugh, a resigned shake of the head, and then he went on – "I never knew how deep their betrayal went. I never even knew Ian worked for MI6. I was ready to kill my own brother, when a better idea occurred to me me. I went back to MI6. Told them with the smoothest of smiles that I was ready to play their little game. That they had won."_

_He met the eyes of each board member. Gone was any trace of emotion, of frailty. His face had been taken over by a much more familiar and much more frightening calm._

"_Now, every breath I breathe is an act of defiance against MI6," he said. "I will tear down all of heaven and earth to get my revenge. And if MI6 so much as _considers_ corrupting my son…"_

_John let the calmly issued threat lay out in the open air._

………………………………………………………….…………

**A/N: You all TOTALLY thought that the couple was going to kidnap Alex, didn't you?**

**Admit it. =)**

.


	4. Choices Made

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Choices Made

**Hi guys – I know I conditioned you all to expect fast and long updates from me, so I guess having to wait so long (relatively) for another chapter might have been a tad odd… =) Anyway, I can't sleep, so I just decided to whip this up. **

**Now, onwards… Shall I proceed with chapter four, or withhold it so I can play cat-and-mouse for a while longer? Shall we ask our cast?**

**Alex: Dude, not cool. Just because you want me for yourself doesn't mean you get to keep me trapped in your computer screen.**

**Me: um… well, actually… lets just talk to someone else.**

**Kurst: I will watch you die in pieces.**

**Me: I made you up, and you are honestly one of the most disturbing people I know. Shut up and sit down.**

**Alex: Just give them the fucking chapter!**

**Jack: Alex!**

**Alex: Sorry Jack, she's annoying! And sadistic!**

**Jack: That may be, but –**

**Me: Am not!**

**Yassen: Are too.**

**Fox: Yeah, you kind of are. And you're a bit messed up. I mean, tearing peoples organs out inch by inch while they're still alive? That's cold.**

**Me: Blame Kurst!**

**Kurst: Shut up and give them the chapter, or we'll all kill you. Even Starbright there has a frying pan.**

**Me: My own imagination is trying to kill me! Help! Help!**

**Disclaimer: AH is NOT this psychotic. Not by a long shot.**

…

_Blood. Blood everywhere. Alex couldn't hear, couldn't feel, and all he could see was deep rep blood spilling over his hands, staining his clothes. He had felt for a pulse in Jacks neck, and she was still alive, barely. He heard her whimpering, whispering, words he couldn't hear as he tried to stem the bleeding._

_There was so much blood!_

_Alex didn't know how much time passed in his desperation, but slowly the flow of blood stemmed off, and Jack stopped moving. It occurred to him sometime later, that she was dead. His scream of rage and fear, of grief and pain was cut off as the dream shifted._

_He was running. He heard the snapping of crocodiles behind him, and tried to speed up. The air around him was torn with bullets. They split the air, glowing with an ethereal fire in the darkness of his dream._

_The scene changed again, and he was pressed down to a conveyer belt, unable to move. He screamed; he could _feel _his feet being fed through the sugar press, in by inch being crushed, red blood spilling out, spraying out of his feet. He would surely die long before the press crushed any of his vital organs…. He closed his eyes, tried to thrash, tried to move, but he was strapped down to a table, and Dr. Grief was cackling with glee._

"_Now students, it is time for our dissection!"_

_Alex screamed again, feeling the knife dig into his shoulder. It was fire and ice, it was pain incarnate as it cut across his skin, exposing everything beneath._

_Dr. Grief was holding a human heart – his own heart – in his hands, and ever so slowly, he began crushing it, the laughter of Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones joining in with that of the miniature Grief clones…_

Alex awoke vomiting. He managed to throw himself over the side of the bed, and the bin next to it caught most of the mess. He wiped his mouth and grimaced, before vomiting again.

"Alex, are you alright?" The voice was coming from the doorway. Alex saw Jack there, dressed in only her pyjamas, a worried expression on her face.

"I'm fine," he managed to call out, his voice hoarse and raw. Jacks disapproving look told Alex he would be giving up answers in the morning, if she had anything to say about it.

Knowing he would never sleep now, Alex moved to the bathroom to take a shower, limping slightly, and holding his shoulder, as if the dream had actually wounded him.

…

"Is it ready yet?" The man's voice was quiet, but it was like a siren in the silence of his apartment in Washington D.C.

"I want this done today," he snapped. "You don't get more time. Just deal with what you have, and bring the package to the states. I'll be waiting."

The man seethed as he snapped his phone shut. This was taking too much time. He could not carry on with his plan if MI6 could just blackmail him into bringing himself in.

This time, he would make sure it was done _right_.

…

_Levi considered John. It was possible, he thought, that Rider could be lying. That this could be a ruse of MI6's – lie to them by telling Scorpia a half – truth. _

_That would be easy enough to check. He stood._

"_Gentlemen, Miss Rothman," he said. "Perhaps we should adjourn to another office to speak privately."_

_His advice was well taken, and soon they were meeting in Rothman's office, on the next floor up._

"_Well?" the Australian asked. "His story is easy enough to verify. We do have a unit in London currently."_

"_I think," Levi said quietly, "That even if it is, John Rider has outlived his usefulness. He is hell bent on revenge, on anarchy. Our business is lucrative, because it is a business. Now, Rider just wants to watch the world burn. He's a rabid dog, and we should be careful lest he infect this organization."_

_His words were spoken with pity, but out of practicality, nonetheless._

"_I agree," the Australian said. "Rider no longer distinguishes friend from foe. He has no loyalty, no sense. He is utterly broken."_

"_A shame," Julia Rothman said. "He was promising."_

"_A shame," Three agreed. There was a smirk around his lips as he said the words. When he met Levi's eyes, Levi saw the vicious gleam in his colleagues' orbs. Did the doctor know more than he was letting on? Kroll wondered. He moved his gaze away before the man had any reason to become suspicious. _

"_How should it be done?" Max asked. "This is not an execution for his betrayal, but a mercy for a colleague."_

"_Send him home." _

_That was Mikato, a black man with Asian-looking eyes. _

"_Tell him we think he needs to take a break. That he needs time to heal, and get over all of this, and take a vacation. We'll send him to France, maybe, or somewhere nice and tropical. And when he gets on the plane, we have an operative place a bomb on it. Boom, problem solved."_

_There were nods of ascent. Only two of the board looked slightly uncomfortable with this outcome. Max and Julia, for their own reasons._

"_And if his child comes with him?" Max asked._

"_It doesn't matter." _

_Cold, ruthless, and practical. That's what they would have to be. No agent was worth it to loose so much over. Not even John Rider._

"_We are agreed to keep this among ourselves?" Rothman asked. "We must keep his betrayal, both to us and to MI6 a secret. It would be destructive if the truth came out."_

_Murmurs of agreement filled the room. _

"_Our official story will be that he died on Albert Bridge," Julia decided. "Every agent we have except for that new fellow – Howell - believes Rider dead. This will be the last anyone hears of John Rider."_

_And, for all intensive purposes, it would be. _

…

"Explain, now," Jack said. Her words were hard, but her voice was caring, still worried.

Alex bit his lip, and looked down into the depths of his fourth cup of coffee. It was only six in the morning.

He could keep his mouth shut, and say nothing, Alex mused. He could suffer in silence. He shouldn't worry Jack. And he didn't want to drive her away. Even if she stayed, she might insist he see someone – and hadn't once been enough of a disaster with his guidance councilor?

On the other hand, he couldn't go on like this. It wasn't fair to Jack, and it just wasn't practical. Jack might insist he go to therapy, but she wouldn't throw him out. He had to trust her – she was the only one he had left.

In the end, he decided on a compromise.

"It was a nightmare," he said. "Its been happening ever since I got back from Tunisia."

Jack nodded. She was on her second cup of coffee already.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

Alex shook his head.

"Not now," he said. The look on Jack's face was mutinous, and for a second, Alex was scared she would press him, but she seemed to decide against it, because she was quiet for a moment before nodding in acceptance. Alex was flooded with relief.

"What are you doing today?" she said instead.

"I thought maybe I'd ring Sabina and see if she wanted to hang out," Alex said. He managed to catch the almost smirk that crossed Jack's lips.

"Ah, speaking of you going out," Jack said, "We need a plan in case MI6 decides to just bring you in regardless of how you feel on the subject."

Alex nodded.

"We need a place and time to meet if everything goes wrong," he supplied. "How about in the states? If I'm the one who gets detained, you shouldn't come back to London for me. I'll go to the states."

"How about the Lincoln Memorial, two weeks from today?" Jack asked. "That way, we have time to lay low if something goes wrong. And it's about as appropriate as it gets," she added the last in a thoughtful tone. Alex fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew just enough about American History to get his guardian's joke.

For a moment, it was almost normal, the two of them sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee, making jokes. It was almost like they weren't two people about to become fugitives, or like Jack has walked in on Alex puking his guts out that morning, or like Alex wasn't a spy about to be labeled a traitor. They were a normal family, having breakfast together.

And then the moment passed. Alex felt the crushing weight of everything come back down on his back. He shouldered the burden.

_This time next week, I'll be in America, far away from MI6, _Alex thought, startled by the idea.

Sabina, as it turned out, was happy to hang out with Alex for the day, and after a long bike ride, they ended up back at the park, talking. Alex told Sabina about his new foster mother, and she told him in turn about the summer course in German she had been taking (at that point, Alex leaned in, and with a suave grin, insisted in flawless German that he had to be allowed to tutor her privately, winning a grin from his girlfriend (!).). Sabina had brought a chess board and they set up a game at one of the picnic tables, shooting challenges across from each other as they played.

Sabina won the first game, and Alex took the second. They were just starting their third round, the sun starting to get high in the sky, when Alex felt the familiar sensation of being watched. He looked around the park as he set up his pieces carefully, taking his time as he surveyed the area.

The park was empty, except for them, an old couple playing chess on the other side of the sandbox, and a couple wearing matching green jogging suits who were doing a circuit of the park. Nothing out of the ordinary. And yet Alex _knew _that _some_thing was wrong.

"Don't you ever go out of 'agent mode'?" Sabina complained. All her pieces were set up, and she was waiting for him to finish. Alex shook himself. He was being mental. It was just the remnants of his dream that were screwing with his head.

"Sorry," he said with a grin, speeding up his hands as he set up his side of the board.

Throughout the game, Alex was distracted. He listened to Sabina talk with one ear, and watched the chess board with one eye, but he was now listening intently, on his guard. Sabina took him within five minutes, and they were setting up a new game.

"Winner takes all," Sabina announced, surveying the board. When that got little reaction from Alex, she leaned in closed, and told him that at the very least, if he was going to be distracted while playing chess, it should be because his eyes were on _her. _"Winner gets to kiss me," she added with a wink.

Alex blushed, but he placed a renewed attention on the board. They were a few moves in when Alex heard Sabina's sharp intake of breath that announced to him that something was in fact very, very wrong.

The click of a gun behind him, and the feeling of cold metal at the back of his neck told him everything else he needed to know. He froze.

"What do you want?" he demanded, not turning.

"You," a voice hissed in his ear. Alex paled – it was the man who had called 999 when he had been hit by the SUV.

_Had they been following him? _Alex knew they had – the couple that had called the paramedics the other day was the same couple he had seen running in the park earlier.

"Up, now, and this doesn't have to get unpleasant," the man said.

"Who do you work for?" Alex demanded.

"That's not your business," the woman cut in. "What _is _your business is that you get up and move before we shoot your girlfriend."

Alex didn't let the fear he felt for Sabina's safety show. He knew that these two did not have orders to kill him, because they had saved his life only yesterday. He looked around – if Sabina could make it to the sandbox, she would have some cover from the heavy plastic equipment while she ran.

"If you leave her alone," he growled. He met Sabina's eyes, and mouthed one word. _'Run'. _

Sabina's eyes widened marginally, but Alex knew she had understood him.

In one fluid movement, Alex slid off of the bench, and swung his legs out underneath his attackers, before they could react. He brought the woman down, and he kicked out at the man a second time, trying to dislodge the gun in his hand.

The man was ready for him this time, and grabbed his foot, twisting him, hard. Alex's head came in contact with the table edge, and he sword violently as he went down. The world turned fuzzy for a moment, but after that, he was back on his feet.

"Leave the girl!" Alex heard the woman yell before she slammed her fist into the side of his face.

Alex kicked back, slipping out of the grip of the man that had been holding him down. He twisted and got off another punch before taking off in the opposite direction of Sabina.

Alex remembered their guns only just in time to send himself rolling out of the path of a bullet. He doubted they were shooting real bullets at him – they would be tranquilizers, or rubber bullets, or something. Whoever they were, they had definitely been sent to capture, not kill him.

The thought pulled him back to his feet from where he had landed after his dive, and pushed him onwards. He had to get to a populated area. He and Sabina had locked their bikes at the entrance to the park, preferring to walk, but he would have no time to get his bike free before his two pursuers caught up with him.

The man overtook him them, and Alex was thrown to the ground by what felt like a ton of bricks.

Alex lashed out, biting, kicking, hitting scratching, and generally doing as much damage as he possibly could. He abandoned form for a desperate escape attempt – he could not be captured again!

Unfortunately, the fight was mostly one-sided after that. The man on top of Alex subdue him with a few well-placed blows that stopped him from struggling as he and his partner bound Alex's hands behind him with a zip tie.

"Don't do something like that again," the man snarled in his ear before Alex was hauled to his feet. He felt the barrel of the gun press into his back. "Walk."

Alex felt a surge of relief that he had managed to get Sabina to safety as he walked, but that relief was immediately squashed by worry as he thought about his current predicament. He was royally fucked.

Alex was bundled into the back of a white cable van. A piece of duct tape was pressed across his mouth to muffle any sound he might make. The woman stepped around front to drive while the man took out a hypodermic needle. He looked down at Alex, who had started thrashing again at the sight of the syringe, and placed a foot on his chest to keep him from moving.

Alex kicked out, but he was helpless to stop the much larger man from driving the needle into his arm.

The world blurred in front of him, and within seconds, Alex was out cold. His unconscious body slumped against the side of the van, and his captor climbed in front to join his partner.

…

"_Mr. Blunt?" Mrs. Jones felt a twinge of nervousness as she addressed her superior. It was only her second project after all, and everything had managed to go very wrong._

"_Please call me Alan," Blunt said tiredly. "I can't stand all that 'Mr. Blunt; stuff with my colleagues."_

_Mrs. Jones nodded, filing that information away, and mentally swearing never to address the man in front of her as anything other than Mr. Blunt._

"_What is it?" Blunt asked._

"_Well sir, its this whole Rider business."_

"_Ah," the expression went from almost human to stony in an instant. Tulip shuddered. It was like he didn't have a soul. She hoped that's not what she would look like ten years from now..._

"_The information we have is that he is alive, and has returned to Scorpia not as a mole, but to cause lasting damage to MI6," Jones said, biting her lip. "Ian Rider, his brother, told us that John was driven over the edge by the death of his wife. Apparently, John thought that _MI6 _had planted the bomb in his house to kill her so that he would have no reason to want his life back."_

"_And?" Blunt asked._

"_Well, sir, I never ordered such an operation to take place," Jones said. "And there are no records in headquarters to suggest that such an action was authorized on our end."_

"_A hit then?" Blunt suggested._

"_I'm afraid so," Jones said. "Someone knew that John Rider was a spy, and wanted to either destroy him, or force him to join up with Scorpia."_

"_That is… disturbing," Blunt said. "And Ian?" _

"_Is distraught, of course. His brother thought he had pulled the trigger, probably because he was the one to claim custody of the boy."_

"_Ah yes, Alex Rider. What do we do with the child? Born of such parents, and considering who is raising him, he could be a valuable asset in time."_

_Mrs. Jones hid the appalled look on her face, ducking her head. She smoothed it over almost at once, but the thought, and the next words out of her mouth left a bitter taste on her tongue. _

"_Of course."_

…

Levi Kroll slammed his fist into his partners desk. Kurst didn't even flinch when the Israeli's hand slammed through the wood.

"Was that necessary?" he asked.

"Zaaiman has cost me many millions of dollars in the last two days with his juvenile antics," he snapped.

"That man has cost all of Scorpia almost three times what you yourself have lost," Kurst said calmly. "Rest assured that when we finally catch him, he will very much regret stealing from us."

"I'll say," Kroll snarled.

"Meanwhile, I've authorized a few of our operatives to screw up some of Zaaiman's hits," Kurst said. "He has taken a large contingent of our younger assassins under his arms, and they seem to be attracted by the thought of a younger board that shares more than the barest of the royalties."

"Anyone extremely good?" Kroll asked.

"He has Gregorovitch," Kurst shrugged. "I suppose Zaaiman must have made a deal with him about that Rider child. Yassen does have an unnatural attachment to the boy."

Kurst waved his hand as though clearing the air of the matter of Alex Rider.

"I called you here to speak to you about our response. Clearly, we must bring up a united front against Zaaiman, despite the fact that he is attacking our individual assets. I want him screaming in my hands by the end of the week."

"What are you suggesting?" Kroll asked, finally adopting a more reasonable tone and taking a seat across from Kurst.

…

"Is there any word from the agents following Alex?" Mrs. Jones asked. Her face was stony, cold.

"Alex has gone missing as of this morning," Blunt said coldly.

Not despair, not pain for the children she had had and lost, not fear for their youngest agent.

"Is there any chance at recovery?"

"It seems Scorpia is behind the attacks," Blunt answered. "If it appears he can do so without blowing his cover, I have instructed Agent Daniels to get Alex out, if the boy is in fact a prisoner there. In the event that escape is not possible, Daniel's is to deliver our new orders to Alex. He will become his father."

"Neither Ian nor John would have wanted that for him."

Ah, there it was, the softness in her voice that said that even after almost twenty years on the job, she cared.

"What they would have wanted is irrelevant," Blunt cut in. "Neither foresaw the circumstances we have before us. And if our research is not mistaken…" he gestured at the file on his table.

"Should we have simply told Alex?" Mrs. Jones asked delicately. Blunt shook his head.

"You don't think he trusts us enough," Jones accused him.

"I think that as it is, Alex is a major security risk," he said slowly. "If he has been captured, he will have to be on his own. We have a bigger problem – a war over control in Scorpia has begun, and it is only a matter of time before it begins to consume civilians. The less he knows, the better. This is need to know only, Tulip, and Alex does not need to know."

"He has a right to make this decision," Mrs. Jones snapped, but she was already pulling her temper under control, unwrapping a peppermint. The taste of guilt and death had been growing while she sat her talking to her superior.

"What do the casualties look like so far?" Jones asked. Reasonable, stony.  
"Well enough, but all of them are agents of Scorpia or of this new branch that is challenging them," Blunt said. "We are monitoring the situation. If it gets out of control, we may have to step in."

Jones nodded, and lapsed into silence as she unwrapped a peppermint, trying desperately to force her mind to not focus on the face of a dead man that was staring out at her from the desk.

…

Alex was woken up when the van hit a heavy bump.

"It's time to wake up now Rider," the man leaning over him said, shaking him, and ripping off the tape that had gagged him. Alex groaned and tried to roll away. He ended up just hitting his already pained head against the wall of the van. They were definitely still moving.

The back of the van had no windows, so Alex couldn't tell where they were. He had no idea how long he had been drugged, though he suspected it hadn't been more than a few hours at most.

"Where are we?" he asked, his words slurring from the fuzziness that the drug had left in his head.

"You'll see."

"That's not an answer."

All Alex got in reply was a shrug on behalf of his captor. He produced a black length of cloth from his pocket. Alex tried to fight back, but there was nothing he could do, bound and still groggy from the drug. The black cloth went around his face, blocking off any chance of seeing where he was, and Alex was hard-pressed to fight down the wave of panic that rose with the oppressive blackness.

About a minute later, the van stopped. Alex was grabbed by the arm and led out of the van, the man's gun at his back. Their footsteps had a slight echo, and Alex figured they must have been in a parking garage underground. It was certainly cold enough.

"Let the boss know we're coming up," the woman said, taking control. He heard a sound of affirmative, coming from an unknown third person, and then he was pushed forward again.

Up some stairs, through what Alex thought might be a lobby a long ride up an elevator, and many confusing twists and turns later, Alex was sufficiently lost. Even if he had escape the vice-like hold on his arm, he would have never been able to find his way back out.

They stopped outside a door – Alex knew because he heard rapid knocking a few moments after he had come to a halt.

The door opened with only a few creaks to identify it, and Alex was pushed forward one last time. A rough shove – Alex thought it might have been the woman – sent him sprawling into a chair. In seconds, his ankles had been tied to the legs of the chair, and a rope wound around his waist, pinning him where he was. He was trapped.

"What do you want?" he yelled, beyond patience. His mouth was dry, and he was pulling against his restraints as hard as he could, trying to find some give. "Leave me alone! What the fuck do you people want from me?"

"Now Alex, surely MI6 has taught you to remain calm under pressure," a light, reasonable voice said.

Alex stopped fighting. He could have sworn that his heart stopped.

He knew that voice.

He _knew _that voice.

But it was impossible. He had to be hearing things. It was just his ears, playing tricks on him, mocking his brain for being so gullible.

Entirely impossible. Alex had stood at this mans' tombstone, thrown flowers next to the grave. Mourned him, _buried_ him.

He was dead.

_Ian. _

_What happened to the days when the dead actually stayed dead? _Alex grumbled. Not that he was going to be issuing a complaint any time soon though. Disbelief gave way to relief, to joy.

Alex felt tentative fingers reach out and brush the side of his face, and Alex was swept up in another wave of rage.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted. "What the fuck could you possibly want with me?" Alex growled a swearword in Arabic.

"Do you know what that means?" the man asked with a chuckle.

"Yes, I do," Alex spat. Another hateful chuckle. So familiar, and yet so damned alien.

"Surely _I _never taught you to use such language," he said, almost reprovingly.

"Go to hell," Alex hissed.

"I've been there, Alex," the man said calmly. "When John blamed me for Helen's death, I thought it was the end of the world. I saw my brother destroyed, and he blamed everything he had lost on his country. The dutiful patriot became hell bent on destroying the world."

"So you decided to prove your patriotic nature… by abandoning me to MI6. The world becomes clear once again," Alex snapped. The snarky comment was not entirely conscious – sarcasm was just much better than freaking out about how inescapably he had been bound.

"Scorpia deiced that they preferred torturing me to killing me," Ian said. "A year and a half I waited for MI6 to care enough to come looking. And when I finally escaped on my own, and discovered what they had made of you…"

The no longer familiar voice of Ian Rider trailed off dangerously, and Alex shuddered involuntarily.

"I decided there was only one way I could end this, and get away with my life, without further ruining yours."

"You decided to kidnap me?" Alex demanded. "Jack and I had a plan."

"MI6 heard everything you and Jack have been saying for years," Ian said. There was something of an apology in his voice. "They've planted bugs all over the house. You wouldn't have even made it to the freeway."

Alex swore. He went with Yeidt's favorite Hebrew curses. Ian chuckled again.

"I think Alex, you are the only person in the world who has as much reason to hate MI6 and Scorpia as I do," Ian continued. "And I brought you here to join me. Help me destroy MI6 and their rival, and then we could leave, and never have to worry about this whole business ever again."

Alex only seriously considered that offer for a total of three seconds. He drew back his lips into an almost feral snarl.

"Not a chance."


	5. Haven't I Already Cried At Your Funeral?

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Haven't I Already Cried At Your Funeral?

**Hello everyone! **

**So, this is a long chapter with lots of stuff happening. Hopefully, this clears up all the plot cobwebs so we can get to the shooting and torturing already.**

**Speaking of which, my friend Talionyzero and I have been looking into starting a club: along the lines of 'lets make Alex's life hell' or something similar. For all you sadists out there who enjoy that sort of thing, let us know, we'll be setting up a forum at some point. =)**

IMPORTANAT:

For those of you that don't know what the anarchist's cookbook is, look it up.

On second thought, for those of you who didn't plan on up on any government watch lists anytime soon, the anarchist's cookbook is essentially a guidebook to domestic terrorism. It includes instructions on how to set up a communications line that is untraceable, how to build a bomb, how to [fill in the blank with illicit activity here], all out of ordinary household appliances.

**I figured Alex would have probably read it, because it has some McGuyver-like stuff in there. **

**By the way, I'm rather proud of the John scene at the end of this… but I think it might be a bit to tangential… I just wanted some closure, and then John decided that he wanted to hog the screen for a bit more. I capitulated, but only because AR only ever gave him one lousy prologue. =)**

**And finally: holy fuck! Over 12 pages! My longest update ever!**

…

"_I'll tell him," Rothman decided. She went downstairs alone, returning to Levi's office. John hadn't moved from where he sat, straight-backed and impassive, bound in the office chair._

_Julia sat on the desk that he was facing. She didn't like that this was how this all should end, but she had no other choice. It was for the best, she thought. MI6 had ruined this man. Death would be far easier, far kinder, for John Rider. He was a patriot. In a year, five, or ten, he would wake up and discover what he had become, and everything he had done to get back at MI6 for using him would destroy him. _

Let him die before he does something that he will hate himself for, _Julia decided. _Let him end it all with dignity, instead of thrashing and screaming like a child. We can give him that.

"_The board has decided to accept your story," she said quietly. "But we want you to take some time off."_

_John's eyes flashed with caution. _

"_I'm fine," he snapped. _

"_No John, you're not," Rothman said sadly. "We just want you to take a bit of a vacation, and work through this, so that when you come back, you'll have some distance from this whole business. And in ten, fifteen years, who knows? Your son could come and join us, and you could be together."_

It wasn't supposed to be this way, _John thought, hearing her last statement. _I was supposed to be there for him. I was going to be the one to help him past his first steps, to teach him his first karate moves, to teach him to play poker, ride a bike, ski…

_The life that John had wanted for him and his son was dead. The role he had been set to play in his son's life was now to be filled by Ian. The man who had murdered Alex's mother. Who had stolen Alex away from his father._

"_They're planning on killing me, aren't they, Julia?" he asked. There was no fear there. John Rider had nothing to loose in life, so he had nothing to fear from death. Save the anger that he was not able to take his revenge from MI6._

"_You have become unpredictable," Julia said. Her words were soft, kind. "It really is for the best. Not just for us, but for you. One day, you will regret what you are planning now."_

_John nodded; it wasn't worth arguing over. _

"_How?" he asked as Julia reached forward and cut through his bonds with a swift slash of the knife she always carried at her waist._

"_A bomb, set on a plane they are setting up for you to take once to get back to London."_

"_Who?" John asked as his other wrist was cut free. Then he met Julia's eyes._

"_Actually, don't tell me, even if you know," he said. "I don't care."_

"_Goodbye, John," Julia said, and kissed him on the cheek, fondly. She wished with all her heart that she could plant her kiss just an inch to the right, to comfort him as only a loved one could, but she knew better._

_John loved only three people in the world unconditionally. Helen, Alex, and Yassen Gregorovitch. Helen was dead, Alex was beyond reach, in the care of a traitor, and Yassen was on assignment, and probably impossible to ever find again._

_John Rider's heart was ice. He could never and would never love another person again._

"_Goodbye Julia," John said. His voice was relatively calm, considering he had just been told he was being led to the slaughter. Perhaps his death really would be for the best, Julia thought sadly. _

_The Scorpia assassin stood. He didn't even rub at his wrists, which Julia knew must be chafing at having been restrained for so long. _

_Without a word, he stepped through the door. Out of her life. Out of Scorpia._

_Julia allowed herself a moment to feel sorry about that, sorry about the fact that he was to be put down like some rabid dog, before she let that emotion go._

_It was far too easy to become unbalanced working with Scopria._

…

There was silence in the room after Alex spoke. And then he heard footsteps coming towards him.

There was a slight pressure on his eyes as something pulled on the blindfold, and it fell away.

"I want you to hear me out," Ian said. He could have been advocating a vacation in France; his voice was so calm and reasonable, Alex forgot for a second that he was actually trying to convince Alex to bring down the government.

"Fine," Alex said, rubbing his wrists and standing when he was cut free. He looked around – they were in an ordinary looking apartment. They could have been almost anywhere in the world.

There was a kitchen set and a table just to his right, and Alex realized that the chair he had been tied to had been pulled from the set of four in the kitchen. Through a half open door, he could see a bedroom, the bed made perfectly and the room spotless. He was sitting in a living room with a couch and a television, and a table in the center. There wasn't much else. "But I have some questions that I need answered, now."

"Ask away," Ian said, gesturing for Alex to sit down at the table.

Alex took a seat at the table while his uncle set water to boil. The normality of it all made him want to scream.

"Where are we?" Alex asked first, deciding that question was the most pressing and important.

"Washington DC," Ian said. Alex raised his eyebrows at that.

"And you aren't here to kill the president or any members of the government?" Alex wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to the question. Ian shrugged.

"I killed a congressman to get some of the money I needed to hire my mercenaries, but it wasn't like he didn't have it coming anyway," he said.

Alex didn't let any of his reaction show in his face or in his voice. He held himself in line with steely control.

"Right," he said. He paused for a second, considering how to phrase his next question, but decided there was no need to do it delicately. "How the bloody hell are you alive? I _saw _your car! I _saw _the bullets in the side!"

Ian pulled two cups from the cabinet and set them down on the counter.

"I was stupid," he said. "I knew that Gregorovitch had gotten involved in Sayle's business, and I panicked. I ran back to MI6, not thinking of what that would look like. I was sure that he had recognized me, if only through my similarities with John."

"So what happened?" Alex asked. Ian leaned back against the counter, looking exhausted. He looked older than Alex had ever seen him.

"He was waiting for me in an ambush just outside London," he said. "They were firing at my car from the side, and I swerved trying to avoid them. My car's as bullet-proof as it gets, but I wasn't going to see how many bullets it took to pound through it. Unfortunately, my windshield gave in at that point, and I lost control. I drove straight into a building. I _would _be dead, if it weren't for my seatbelt."

He gave Alex a significant look, making Alex incredulous. Ian was seriously going to get on his case about a stupid seatbelt?

"I normally don't take safety tips from murderers," he said, shrugging. Ian flinched at the word, but he shrugged.

"I would argue that those of us who have lived on the run have more experience protecting ourselves than anyone else," he said casually. Alex ignored him.

"So what happened?" he asked.

"Gregorovitch had a bunch of his cronies with them," Ian said. "They grabbed me while I was still dazed, and drugged me. I woke up in a cell in Scorpia."

Alex shivered – his latest experiences with Scopria were too recent for him not to have sympathy for his uncle. After all, Yassen had as much as told him his age was the only reason he didn't want to torture him.

"Ah, of course, I had heard that they had managed to take you," Ian said quietly. "Your heart stopped?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Alex said. He saw Ian's fists tighten in anger, and he realized his anger was angry not at him, but at the callous tone he used to describe his injuries.

"You were shot in the heart," Ian said quietly. Asking a question and stating a fact at once.

Alex nodded.

"Do I need to ask if you've been doing PT?" Ian demanded.

"Um," Alex said.

"Of course not," Ian muttered. "You ended up on another mission before you were even out of hospital."

"In MI6's defense, I kind of landed myself in that one," Alex pointed out. Ian rolled his eyes.

"You should not be alive," Ian said softly.

"Neither should you."

Ian sighed.

"I will not argue the point," he said wearily. "We Riders have the annoying habit of living long past our expiration dates."

Alex raised an eyebrow, and Ian sighed.

"At lest ten Riders that I know of attempted to take their own lives, and succeeded to varying degrees," Ian said. "Helen was doing her doctorate is Psychology, and she told John that depression is hereditary."

Alex flinched at that.

"Who?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to know. The tea was boiling, but it was forgotten as Ian held up both hands, counting as he spoke.

"Me, for one, when your father accused me of being his wife's murderer," he said, putting down his pinky. "Your father, after the same event, both of our parents; your grandmother actually succeeded. At least three of my cousins that I know of, my aunt; I don't know the circumstances behind it, though I suspect it had something to do with three of her four children being hospitalized for depression and trying to kill themselves, my grandfather; he was alive to see both World Wars, and he killed himself in France rather than be taken captive by the Nazis. And then of course, there's Helen, who doesn't have the excuse of genetics, but I think we can still forgive her for attempting to kill herself when her husband was dragged back to Scorpia the third or fourth time."

Alex flinched at each of the names. It was difficult to hear it all put down like that. His family really was psychotic, at the very least.

"You make it sound like anyone with the last name Rider should be locked away for their own good," Alex said quietly.

"Shouldn't we be?" Ian asked.

"Not all of us," Alex shot back.

"So you're telling me that your teenage tantrum phase is going to be limited to getting yourself laid with a prostitute and drinking vodka?" Ian smirked.

"It will _not _consist of me becoming a murderer for the sake of revenge," Alex said. "What I do saves lives. What you do only takes them."

"So you running away from MI6 when they proposed sending you undercover as a child soldier in Uganda, that was patriotism?" Ian asked with another smirk.

"Shut up," Alex snapped. He stood up and picked up the whistling kettle, the sound grating on his nerves. More to find something to do than anything else, he poured two cups of tea, and handed one to Ian. He took the other to the table.

"How did you escape Scorpia?" Alex demanded. "I only barely managed it, even with help."

"I set the compound on fire," Ian said it like it was the easiest thing in the world. "I managed to pick the lock, and get out before anyone caught me on their cameras. I found of few crates of oil, and drove an ATV into them to give them something better to think about."

Alex stared. It took him a second to remind himself that he had done very similar things. It was just so… strange to be sitting here in such a normal looking kitchen, talking about the stuff that made spy movies so popular.

"I'm not going to help you, you know," Alex pointed out. Ian sighed, exasperated, but whatever response he might have given was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. He snapped it open, listened for a minute growled an order, and snapped it shut.

"Shit, Zaaiman is early," he muttered. He looked at Alex.

"Scorpia is in the first throes of a civil war, Alex," he said. "A south African man named Evert Zaaiman is leading a coup against the board of Scorpia. As I understand it, one of the board is actually helping him. We are discussing the terms of an alliance forged out of our mutual interest to see Scorpia fall."

"And you are telling me this, because…" Alex started.

"Because Zaaiman is on his way upstairs, with some of his cronies," Ian said calmly. And it could get ugly."

…

"_How have your classes been going?"_

_Alex bit his lip to keep the snarky comment that popped into his head from actually jumping out. He was sitting across from the school guidance councilor again. He didn't know what he'd done this time; he hadn't been called back to Rachel's office since his disastrous first session. Presumably, that meant that the school was trusting him to deal with his own issues._

_Or so he'd thought._

"_They've been alright," he said. _

"_Your English teacher showed me an essay you handed in last week."_

_Alex let out an internal groan. Of course. Why, oh _why _had he even attempted to treat the stupid assignment seriously? How hard would it have been, honestly, to just bullshit something that wasn't incriminating? Something about unicorns, and flowers, or whatever the hell kind of thoughts this bloody woman thought bounced around the heads of sane and stable teenagers?_

_Of course not. His English teacher had said 'write a creative short story that echoes the sense of helplessness in Kafka's writing,' and he had decided to write about bloody MI6._

"_The assignment was to write a _fictional_ story," he said, his voice clipped. He placed the stress on the word fictional._

"_Have you ever run into problems with the government?" Rachel asked._

"_Not really, no," Alex said, in his most innocent voice._

"_Do you belong to any radical fringe movements?" She continued._

"_Are you a guidance councilor or the bloody police?" Alex snapped, giving up the 'innocent' look at once._

"_Have you ever read the Anarchists Cookbook?"_

_Alex fought the urge to shift uncomfortably, knowing that the movement would give him away. As what, he wasn't quite sure yet, but he didn't really like the direction this conversation was headed in. And it really didn't help that random excerpts from said incriminating book had decided to pick today, of all days, to remind him how easy it was to kill people with just ordinary household items. It was actually scary. _

To build an RDX explosive device, you place 120 ml of nitric acid in a large canning jar and keep it a ta temperature of 20 to 30 degrees celcius…

"_No," he said calmly. "Like I said. I don't do drugs, drink, or cut. Do we really need to add domestic terrorism to the list of activities I don't care to partake in?"_

"_Do you think that the government should be overthrown?" Rachel pressed. Alex really hated her method of answering questions with more questions. It reminded him of an interrogation session more than it reminded him of psychological therapy._

"_I believe in social resistance when the government is corrupt," Alex answered. "Not that it should matter to you. I don't have any problems with the government, and I'm certainly not about to go blow up a building, or whatever. It was a bloody. Fictional. Story." _

_He gritted out the last three words as if Rachel hadn't heard him the first time around. Which, he later reflected, was probably actually the case._

"_I think you seriously need to recalculate just how worth it is to drag me out of class for this farce when I'm already so far behind," he snapped. He picked up his school bag and stood before slinging it over one shoulder. _

_Rachel didn't say a word as ye yanked open the door. It wouldn't have mattered if she had, though, because Alex was in too much of a snit to even want to pay attention. He simply did not care what this woman had to say. _

_So as he marched out, Alex slammed the door behind him so forcefully that Rachel's coffee spilled over on her desk, staining all her notes from the session._

…

The gun Ian had given Alex seemed to weigh a million pounds, strapped to his ankle. It seemed that Ian at the very least trusted Alex not to shoot him, which was good. Alex knew he was going to have to find a way to exploit that softness for him.

MI6 needed to be warned.

Evert Zaaiman was tall and thin, with menacing eyes. It had taken all that Alex had not to run screaming from the man. There was a way that he held himself that was just… ruthless.

Alex had no doubt that this man was capable of destroying Scorpia.

Zaaiman was flanked by two men. On his right was a man Alex had never seen before, who greeted them with a clipped Australian accent.

To his left was Yassen Gregorovitch. Alex didn't miss the glare that Ian shot the assassin – but Yassen did. He was staring slightly incredulously at Alex.

"Do you have no sense of self-preservation at all?" he asked. Alex only shrugged.

"I'm not the one who decided to shack up with Scorpia," he answered.

"Be that as it may," the Australian interjected. "We have business to discuss."

"Of course," Ian said, pointing the three men to chairs in the living room. He gestured for Alex to sit beside him on the couch.

"You understand, of course, gentlemen, that my intention is to see all of Scorpia destroyed?" Ian began.

"We have that in common," Zaaiman said. "You need not worry – we will not continue under the label of Scorpia. Our intention is to destroy the old order. I do understand that you are rather… not fond of our third board member," Zaaiman glanced at Yassen before continuing. "However, may I propose a temporary true to your vendetta? So long as anything else of Scorpia remains, you will not come after Gregorovitch?"

"I am willing to wait," Ian shrugged. "So long as you are aware that I will kill him in the end."

Alex shivered. It wasn't even a threat. It was a statement of fact. There was nothing at all menacing in the way his uncle spoke.

"So long as you are aware that we will have to kill you for the attempt."

Zaaimans voice was equally quiet and reasonable. Ian shrugged.

"Where and when do you need me and my men?" he asked. "We number thirty-one, if you include myself. Tell me where you need me, don't get in my way when I have any member of Scorpia in my scope, and we'll get along fabulously."

Zaaiman nodded. "We'll be in contact," he said. He placed a phone on the table. "It's untraceable. We'll call you when we need you; destroy it once you know what to do."

Ian nodded, looking over the phone.

"Anything else?"

"Just one," Yassen said. "If the boy is involved, we will not be. John made me promise that I would ensure that his son was never involved with this world. Keeping my promise is difficult enough without his uncle actively encouraging it."

"You do realize that I am Alex's uncle, right?" Ian said.

Alex could only stare in horror. Did things get any more surreal? More to the point, were dangerously unbalanced people always this childish?

He looked at Zaaiman and the Australian, both of whom looked bored, but not about to stop Yassen and Ian from arguing. Alex could have sworn they were… smiling?

Creepy.

Yassen sneered at Ian. "And I suppose your brotherly feelings towards John absolved you when you shot his wife?"

_Wait what?_

"Do you seriously believe I would shoot Helen?" Ian asked derisively.

"John did."

Yassen and Ian glared at each other.

Alex rolled his eyes. It was just so… childish.

He had missed what Ian said next, but Yassen was suddenly holding a Russian Grach handgun with a silencer attached (Alex didn't know if it was more disturbing that an assassin had a gun trained on his uncle, or that he recognized the make of the assassins gun), and was pointing it coolly down at Ian. Ian had his pistol out, and was looking just as coolly back.

"Enough," Zaaiman ordered. "You will either resolve your mutual difficulties, or we will be at war with each other as well as Scorpia."

"I wouldn't mind, so long as I got to take out Gregorovitch first," Ian grumbled. But he lowered his gun just a little.

"Alex has as much of a right and a reason to fight Scorpia," he said.

And then Yassen fired.

The gun made no sound as it went off, but a moment later, red blood was blooming around Ian's right shoulder. Alex jumped forward, applying pressure to the wound and desperately searching for something to use as a tourniquet.

Someone grabbed him by the arm, trying to drag him back. Alex lashed out, not caring who he hit. As far as he was concerned, he could have hit Ian and it wouldn't have mattered.

Whoever had hold of his arm, however, didn't relinquish him when the blow landed. If anything, the grip tightened around him, trying to pull him to his feet.

"Ian will be fine," Yassen growled in his ear.

"It's not Ian I'm more worried about, jackass," Alex growled back, striking out with everything he had. Yassen managed to grab onto hi other wrist, and kept the pinned behind his back. Alex cried out, kicking and shouting, but he stilled when Yassen held a gun to his temple.

"Thank you. Evert, Devon, I am very sorry for my temper. It seems we will not be fighting alongside Rider."

"I'm more confused as to what you intend to do with a child."

"You do realize I'm sixteen, right?" Alex shot at him, unable to bite the remark back. "Even if I were a normal teenager, I'm not a child."

The Australian man named Devon didn't even respond.

"Little Alex is our ticket out of here," Yassen said. He stepped out into the hall.

"The boy with my Grach trained on him is the nephew of Ian Rider. If you value your lives, I would recommend that you didn't shoot," Yassen called.

The mercenaries – for they could be nothing else – crowing the halls with their guns lowered them. They were paid to stop intruders, but they weren't going to risk their lives only to have to face Ian's temper.

"Rider has been shot in the shoulder," Zaaiman called when they reached the elevator. "It's a through and through wound. If you administer first aid now, he main retain the use of his arm."

The elevator doors closed with a quiet chime.

Yassen relaxed his hold on Alex.

Alex took advantage by twisting around, lashing out and hitting Yassen in the nose. He sword colorfully in Russian before pouncing on Alex again. With Zaaiman and Devon to help, Alex was subdued by the time they reached the lobby. The guards downstairs didn't even bother picking up their guns – they had gotten the message form upstairs while the four of them were in the elevator.

"Alex, if you do not stop struggling, I will knock you out and let Zaaiman have his fun with you before we return you to your _handlers,_" Yassen spoke with the same scorn of MI6 had Ian had. Alex decided to take discretion as the better part of valor, and let himself be hurled into the waiting van.

"We need to make a quick stop at the nearest police station, Yassen said calmly to Zaaiman. Yassen was at the wheel, while Zaaiman was keeping an untrusting eye on Alex.

"Fine by me," he said.

Five minutes later, they neared a police station. Yassen skidded to a halt in front, and climbed over the back to speak to Alex.

"If I ever see you in the context of my job again before you turn twenty, I will painfully and permanently cripple you," Yassen said, before reaching over, pulling the door open, grabbing Alex by the collar and literally throwing him out of the car. Alex landed painfully in the street.

For the first time since he had stood at his uncle's grave, he cried for the family he had lost, not caring that he was in the middle of a street outside a police station in another country, covered in blood. He didn't care what he looked like.

For just one minute, he wanted to act like the child every enemy he had ever faced assumed he was. For just one second, he wanted to not have to be Atlas.

Alex was no longer a child.

But pretending that he, even if it was just for a moment, was a welcome distraction from the real world.

…

_John Rider looked down the walk leading onto the plane. He could still go back._

_He could still live._

I could live as a hunted animal, _John thought angrily. He shook his head._

_Scorpia would kill him anyway. He was too much of a liability. And MI6 would kill him if they thought he was still alive – his deception alone would condemn him._

_He had briefly considered going to Ian, demanding that his brother return his child to him. The idea was ludicrous, however. John knew it just wasn't possible._

_He had left a letter for Ian, however. Asking his brother for one last favor before he left MI6. He had told Ian he didn't hate him for Helen's death, no matter that it had been Ian to pull the trigger. He had begged his brother to ensure that Alex would never end up a spy._

_It wasn't much._

_But he knew that his brother – out of guilt, love, understanding, or all three – would obey his last wish._

_It was enough._

_Ian Rider was a patriot, and if he was ordered to do something by MI6, he would. He implicitly trusted all of them – Blunt, Jones, the rest of them. He had always had something to fight for._

_John Rider had only ever wanted his life – and his family back. _

_John placed his small carry-on in the overhead, and settled down. The plane would never reach the ground. _

_John Rider put his headphones in, not wanting to see or hear the voices and faces of the others on the plane. Their lives were about to be ended abruptly._

_As the plane began preparations for takeoff, John wished he was more of a drinker. He knew it would be painless – one swift explosion, and it would all be over. But even so, it probably couldn't hurt to be completely blasted when it happened, John reasoned. But he hadn't touched any kind of alcohol since he had drunk himself into a violent rage and killed a man for some stupid (and probably also drunken) comment._

_Liquor was the reason he had ended up here in the first place. He had learned his lesson._

_It was unfortunate, that that lesson meant that everyone sitting around him would have to die as well. _

_It didn't seem fair. But John Rider had had enough experience with how unfair the world was, and it no longer bothered him anymore. He was just too far gone to care._

_His death really might be best._

_He could still turn back, John thought. There were a million ways to stop a plane in its tracks – the simplest of which was simply to yell that he had a bomb that was ready to explode, and he didn't want to die._

_He could still live._

_The plane began to speed up, taking off down the runway. It shuddered, and then they were in the air. _

_John imagined himself standing up, yelling that there was a bomb somewhere on the plane. At the very least, they would have to land the plane to look. He could delay his fate a few hours._

_MI6 would come to the airport, and they would demand to know what the hell he thought he had been doing._

_They would bring him back under their control. If they wanted to, they could have him locked up for the rest of his life. And they would certainly not give Alex back to him. _

_It would be best._

_They were high in the sky now, London falling away beneath them._

_John had carried the same picture with him wherever he went for ten years. Him and Helen, before all life had turned into a waking hell for both of them. He had gone over the picture so many times, when he was with his unit, on missions, when he was in prison. The picture he carried with him now was a very different one._

The sun was softly piercing the curtains, letting a filtered green light into the room. John turned to see Helen already awake. Her eyes were bright with… tears? John took his wife into his arms.

"You're really back," she whispered, tracing a hand down the side of his face. "I was afraid that I would wake up, and you would be gone."

"I will always come back for you," John said quietly, kissing her firmly. "I promise."

They lay like that for a long time, just savoring each other. Their time together was so sparse, so rare, that such moments were to be treated as precious gems, not to be wasted.

Their long moment was interrupted by the harsh ringing of the phone. Helen bit her lip.

"It can't wait?" John asked. Helen shook her head, reaching over John for a moment. She listened, a smile spreading across her features.

John loved that smile.

"Thank you!" Helen said, beaming into the receiver. "We'll be there soon."

John raised one of his eyebrows, asking a question without words. The movement reminded him of the young assassin that had managed to copy the gesture almost perfectly.

"What was that?" he asked. Helen couldn't stop beaming.

"Okay sleepyhead, it's time to get up," she said, pulling John up into a sitting position. For a moment, she was transfixed by the scars that twisted around her husbands body – so many more than there had been last time she had seen him – but she kept grinning.

"Come on, lets go," she said, practically buzzing with excitement. She wanted to share this moment with her husband. "Or I'll have to get physical."

Again, that quirk of an eyebrow, accompanied by the slightly wolfish grin.

"And if I'm merely waiting for you to get physical?" he asked, the innuendo clear, but he relented.

"What is this about?" he asked, pulling on a shirt he hadn't seen in almost a year.

"You'll see," Helen said mysteriously. "We'll eat on the way. Come on!"

"On the way where?" John asked. "Helen, I usually reserve surprised in the morning for when I'm working."

"This is a much better surprise," Helen assured him, coming out of the kitchen, half dressed and carrying two cups of coffee.

"You are an angel," John said, kissing his wife again.

They were in the car moments later, Helen driving.

John's curiosity was replaced by worry when Helen pulled into the parking lot of a hospital. He had lots of experience with hospitals, all of them bad. He had an especially bad one in a hospital in Somalia, when a nurse had pricked his arm over twelve times before she had been able to draw his blood. He shuddered.

"Helen," he said.

"Oh don't be squeamish," Helen said cheerfully, pulling him inside. Several of the nurses walking past smiled and waved at Helen.

"Fine, just a little hint, please?" John asked as they stepped into the elevator. Helen pressed the fifth floor without checking to see where to go. Of course, she would know her hospital forwards and backwards, even in her sleep, John thought.

"Not even one," Helen answered his plea with an even wider grin.

"You're the devil," John grumbled. Helen kissed him.

"It comes from being married to you," she teased.

The doors opened with a chime, and Helen practically ran down the hall, dragging her husband with her by the hand. John was hard pressed to keep up with his wife.

Looking around, he realized they were in a maternity ward.

"Um, Helen," he started again, but Helen was far ahead, sighing them in with the woman at the desk.

"Dr. Roberts will see you in a moment," the secretary said. Helen was prancing with impatience by the time Dr. Roberts appeared.

_Forty-six, dyed hair, wears contacts, right handed, _the analytical part of his mind said as he watched Helen speaking to her. He couldn't quite make out the words – Helen was chattering away at a speed that should have been illegal. His head gave a painful throb, reminding him that he needed another cub of coffee.

"I'll fill out the paperwork," Dr. Roberts was promising when John zoned back in. "You can see him in unit 213, meanwhile," she gave them a grin, and headed back into the corridor filled with rooms and hospital machinery.

Helen was running again, dragging John along. She stopped at a door marked with a large 2 on it, and pulled it open.

"Helen, what is going on?" John demanded.

Helen's face was shining now. Without a word, she went to the last in a row of small glass beds, and picked up the baby in it.

The baby, for it's part, yawned sleepily and looked at John curiously.

"He's ours," Helen announced.

John felt the news like a physical blow. It was like his heart had expanded to twice the size, trying to shatter his ribs. John took an uncertain step forward, then another.

"He nearly died of an infection when he was born," Helen said, cradling the child. "He had to be in hospital for a week to sort it all out – I know you don't want the gorey details…" John was close enough to see the mop of blonde hair, as fair as spun gold, and two bright brown eyes. "He looks like you."

John raised a shaking hand to hold that of his child. The tiny hand grabbed hold of one finger, and squeezed. John felt his heard melt.

"What are we going to call him?" he asked.

"I didn't think about that," Helen said, transfixed by the child. "I was so scared that he was going to die that I never thought…"

They stood in silence, looking at the child. _Their _child.

"Alex," Helen said dreamily, and looked at John. "Alexander Jonathan Rider."

"Works for me," John said. He considered the baby – Alex.

"How about you kiddo?" he asked. "Will Alex work for you?"

Alex just cooed happily, and John kissed Helen, then his child.

_The picture John carried now was at the hospital, only seconds later, when Dr. Roberts appeared with the discharge papers for Alex. _

_He traced the smiling lines of Helen's face, the cooing delight of his child. His child._

_John flinched. It was a picture of a happy family. Going back to Scorpia after that had been hell. It was supposed to have been the last time._

_How could things have gone so wrong? How could he have ended up here, on a plane to Florida, just waiting for the blast that would destroy every last remnant of the shell of the man that he had once bee-_

_The plane exploded, splintering into a million pieces over the Atlantic. Everyone on board was instantly incinerated, turned to ash by the power of the blast._

_As hunks of burning metal, twisted grotesquely in a way that no longer even resembled the plane they had been moments ago began to fall, a light drizzle accompanied them, sweeping over the sea. _


	6. Consequences

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Consequences

**Hello friends! Yes I know, this has been a comparatively long time between updates, and you'll have to excuse me. I know most of you are probably on summer break at the moment – I have another couple days of school, and several major research papers to finish before I'm free, and I've been dealing with a psychotic guidance councilor and an advisor who thinks I'm about to off myself. I'll have to heartily beg your forgiveness.**

**Hopefully, the awesomeness of this chapter will win your love and loyalty back?**

**I got about four pages in before the action really got into it, which frustrated me. Damn it, I wanted to get to the shooting guns part of it, but Davis and Walsh demanded their page time, and I'm just too nice to my characters.**

**Alex: Um, what?**

**Kurst: Seriously? You're **_**almost**_** as bad as I am.**

**Me: Okay, maybe I'm not **_**nice**_**, but I did give Walsh and Davis more time than they deserved when everyone just wanted to get to the shooting.**

**Alex: Yeah, yeah (under his breath: fucking sadist).**

**Me/Jack: I heard that!**

**I have a **_**great**_** relationship with my characters! See?**

…**.**

Ian Rider was meeting with a man he had tried to kill on multiple occasions. Not that that was anything new in his line of work, but his line of work also rarely required him to contact notorious arms dealers to make real purchases.

"I'm looking for military grade explosives, C4 in particular," he said. "I also need a semi-automatic Dragunov SVD, along with ammunition, and thirty-seven Colt LE6920 Law Enforcement Carbines, with copious extra ammunition for each," Ian said smoothly.

The Dragunov was a question of sentimentality, not practicality. As sniper rifles went, it was actually kind of primitive. It was the first sniper rifle that had been designed from scratch, and while it a smooth reliable weapon, there were other, better sniper rifles.

But it was familiar in his hands, an old friend. It was the first sniper rifle Ian had ever trained with, and it had been a fond favorite of Johns.

Besides, that Russian bastard had the same attachment to it that John had (Ian hated that, because he knew that the Scorpia assassin had taken that particular habit from his brother – just as the Russian had copied Johns favorite gesture, an eyebrow raised just a fraction when he knew that you were lying), and nothing would give him more pleasure than to shoot the assassin with his favorite weapon.

So the Dragunov it was.

"It'll be pricy," the arms dealer said reluctantly. "And difficult to get. The Colt isn't exactly inconspicuous, or easy to ship. The military grade C4 will also take a bit of doing. What are you trying to do Rider, start a small war?"

"Price is not an object," Ian snapped, ignoring the dealers' question. "How soon can you get the materials?"

"Within the week," he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"Good," Ian said. "Contact me when you have procured the shipment."

"You said you had another matter to discuss?"

"Yes, I did," Ian answered. "I'm looking for ballistic missiles."

"Jesus Christ," the man breathed. "You really are trying to start a war."

"Is that any concern of yours, so long as you supply the weapons and get paid?" Ian asked with a small sneer, raising his left eyebrow – he hated himself for the gesture, knowing most of this world associated it with the Russian bastard, but he had picked it up from John too, and he didn't seem able to shake it.

"How many missiles were you looking for?" the dealer asked finally, his voice rather weak.

Ian Rider smirked.

….

Donald Walsh had seen a lot of things in his work for the Metropolitan Police Department. Murders, rapes, serial killers, skinned animals, ritual sacrifices, and several other strange and less savory things. He had come to realize and accept that he always had to be ready for the unexpected.

And until a grey Wednesday morning in the middle of this summer, he thought he had done reasonably well.

The boy was well built, not overly tall or thin. He could have been fourteen or eighteen – it was difficult for Walsh to place anything about him. So far, he had only said four words at all – a quiet "thank you" to one of the building's secretaries who had brought him a cup of tea, and his name – "Alex Rider." The words had an English accent to them – and in fact, when Walsh had checked the boy's record, he found that the boy was a British national. Strangely enough, however, Walsh couldn't find any record of an Alex Rider entering the states.

What he did find, however, disturbed him even further.

The boy was sitting in Walsh's office now. He was watching the wall, as if he could see something fascinating there.

About five minutes after his ridiculously uninformative search (which had yielded only the details that the boy was sixteen, lived with a guardian who was an American citizen, and had some sort of special clearance with the British government), he had received a call from Kevin Davis, the head of the CIA. Walsh had worked with the man (a process that usually involved fighting over jurisdiction on murder and drug trafficking cases with him) on two occasions, neither of which had been enjoyable.

"I've been informed that a boy named Alex Rider has recently dropped into your custody," Davis had said before Walsh could so much as say hello. "Doubtless you are by now aware of his… special circumstance… with the British. Do me a personal favor, and don't ask the boy anything, don't prosecute him, and for the love of god, do not let him leave your station. I am sending over a team to pick him up."

"Why?" The self-serving and insulting tone of Davis' voice grated on Walsh's nerves, and he dug for information he knew he wasn't ever going to get.

"Sorry, classified," Davis answered, not sounding apologetic in the slightest.

Walsh had mouthed incoherently and incredulously into the receiver for a moment before he answered. Not that he was surprised at Davis' silence or arrogance, it was just frustrating every time he had to deal with the trumped up bastard.

"Fine," he snapped. "When will your men be here?"

"Give them half an hour," Davis said, and hung up.

Walsh stared at the phone for a minute, not quite able to understand what had just happened.

Who the hell was this boy?

And now Alex Rider was sitting across from him, a half empty cup of tea in his hands, his eyes tracing patterns in the wall behind him.

"Who are you?" Walsh asked the boy out loud. He got no answer, not that he was expecting one. The boy was still covered in blood; he looked as if he had been at the scene of a murder.

"The CIA are coming to pick you up," he added. "They're driving in from Langley. I wonder why?"

_That _got a reaction. It was brief, but Walsh saw the alarm in the boys' eyes as they flashed to his face for just a second. Walsh recognized the look that he saw in the eyes of cornered criminals. Was that it? Was this boy, this _child, _was he some sort of criminal, on the run? Why had he been dumped out of a van right on their doorstep, if he was?

Walsh rubbed his temples.

"I don't suppose you're allowed to tell me what all this fuss is?" he asked, without much hope.

The half smile Alex gave him was apologetic. "Sorry. Classified."

Walsh grumbled – Davis had pulled the same crap on his more than once. Hadn't he said the exact same thing just a few minutes before? It bothered him that the Rider boy's voice was exactly the same as Davis' – cool, calculating, neutral. It was the response of a spy.

But that was ridiculous! He was sixteen!

_I think I may need to stop working Metro, _Walsh thought, looking at the boy. _My life gets stranger and stranger every day. Maybe fifteen years is long enough to work the D.C area. _

Wash sighed. He never would retire, he knew. He was the longest standing officer in the Metro station at the moment, and it was a water cooler joke that he was on his way out any day now; any day now, either a retirement, a promotion or a bullet would free up his office.

Walsh didn't know about the bullet, but he liked his job, and didn't intend to leave it.

Once this boy was gone, he could wash his hands of Alex Rider, and go back to his job without sparing a second thought for the bloodstained child.

Silence reigned in the room for half an hour, punctuated by the click of Walsh's keyboard. As he finished writing up his incident report for a case he had just closed that morning. The boy said nothing, and as far as Walsh could tell, he didn't even move. His eyes were fixed on the wall across, watching it as if it had something important to tell him.

Maybe the boy was crazy? Walsh wondered idly, watching him out of the corner of his eye before going back to his reports. The tense silence was broken when the office secretary knocked on the door.

"Commander Walsh, the CIA is here," she said, poking her head through the door. She cast Alex a sympathetic look and took the still full cup of tea from his hands when he stood and handed it to her.

Walsh nodded, and let the boy go, wishing there was some way he could fight the CIA to keep him. Alex looked lost, and he certainly did not look like he _wanted _to be going with the intelligence agency. But what could he do?

And why did the CIA want Alex anyway?

…

Shots rang out in the midmorning light, cutting through the silence in the desert.

Yassen Gregorovitch was not pleased. A simple – but rather large - shipment of Qassam Rockets had bee interrupted by Scorpia. What had begun as a territorial pissing match between Scorpia and the men under Yassens command had had quickly deteriorated into diplomatic negotiations filled with thinly veiled threats, and then actual shooting.

Reloading his rifle, Yassen emptied his clip before taking cover behind their shipping van again. It was specially reinforced, so unless Scorpia started using grenades or rocket launchers, nobody would have to worry about the whole van exploding.

_Even Kroll is not that stupid, _Yassen thought smugly.

"Give it up Gregorovitch!" Kroll yelled.

Yassen's only response was another full clip of ammunition before ducking out of sight as another hail of bullets came his way.

"Enough of this," Yassen said calmly. He picked up three grenades from the box of weapons they had been shipping, and tossed them towards the enemy. Three explosions, accompanied by yells of pain, reached Yassen's ears, and he nodded approvingly, not even slightly shook up by the explosions that had made the ground underneath him rumble threateningly.

"Move out now," he ordered his team, lobbing another round of grenades at the men shooting at them before climbing into the cab of the van. The ground shook and rocked as the man next to Yassen started the ignition, and hit the accelerator like his life depended on it – which, if you thought for a moment about the assassin sitting next to him, it probably did.

Yassen, however, was not really in the mood to go on a killing spree in his own rands. He was deep in thought about his current predicament. He didn't dare so much as hope he had taken Levi down – the man was absurdly difficult to kill, very much like Yassen himself – but as they took off through the desert again, only a few half hearted shots chased them further into the wilderness. The Russian assassin had to wonder why Kroll and his men were not giving chase.

_Probably because it is not worth it, not for a hundred Qassam rockets, _Yassen rationalized. On the other hand, giving up now was tantamount to admitting that Scorpia could not control the illegal weapons trade, something that he knew Kroll would never care to concede.

Something else was happening. Yassen disliked surprises, and he did not care to wait around like a sitting duck until he found out what ace Kroll, Three, and the rest of the board had up their sleeves. It was sure to be very nasty.

….

The head of the CIA was a man after Alan Blunt's own heart, Alex thought dispassionately. He could certainly see the two of them being friends – two emotionless, stony peas in a pod, they were.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

"I know what you do," Alex replied evenly. "It's the same thing, isn't it?"

"My name is Kevin Davis," the man introduced himself.

"Pleasure," Alex said. His voice was utterly blank.

"Alex, you are in a spot of trouble," Davis said reprovingly. Alex shrugged. He couldn't bring himself to feel worried about this man. He had faced worse, much worse, than the head of the head of the CIA.

"I need to speak to MI6," Alex said, as if he hadn't heart what Davis had said. "I need to warn them, before something really back happens."

"And if I told you that MI6 had given me express orders to apprehend you and return you to Britain in the manner of an escaped convict, would you still feel the need to talk to them?" Davis asked quietly.

"At the moment, it does not matter," Alex said. "I want to talk to my superiors."

"Your superiors don't exactly want to talk to you right now."

"Regardless, I need to talk to them," Alex said. He didn't have any panic to spare – he felt empty, detached. It was like he was experiencing the world from behind a glass screen. Part of him understood that he was currently in shock, but another part just didn't care. He was sick of caring. "They have a big problem on their hands."

"I have my orders," Davis shrugged. "You're to be brought back to London for questioning. Anything beyond that is MI6's prerogative."

Alex felt the glass crack just a little as those words hit home. Not enough to cause him any kind of real distress, but enough to bring forth some mild concern.

"What are you talking about?" he asked blankly.

"You have become a liability," Davis said kindly. "MI6 already made the mistake of failing to control their agents with your father – they do not plan on making the same mistake with you."

Alex knew he should be freaking out, but he only stared at Davis, unable to quite summon the emotion he knew he should. Anger, betrayal, fear… He felt nothing.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" he asked quietly.

Davis looked at him suspiciously, but relented, telling Alex that the bathroom was down the hall to his left, and it would be the fourth door down on the right side of the hall.

Alex found the restroom easily enough with those directions. It was clean and chrome, with a black and white checkered floor. A line of sinks and mirrors extended to his right, reflecting back the stalls.

It was the sight of his reflection in those mirrors that finally cracked him.

Over the past year, Alex had kept a careful eye on the face he saw every morning. For a while, coming back from his missions, he had been forced to work to find even a little bit of the teenager he was in the sharp angles and harsh lines that drew his features.

A year and a half – what he now understood to be a fleeting and unrecoverable chance at freedom that had come and gone in what felt like a mere instant – had smoothed those lines, until there was almost nothing left of the agent that he had once been, except perhaps flashes here and there.

Likewise, even when he was fourteen, there had been a part of him that always showed through – the childish petulance that made him want to infuriate his captors, the overwhelming curiosity that made him both so invaluable and so vulnerable…

The face he saw in the mirror had nothing of the child left. It was a smooth and emotionless mask. It was the face of an agent. Of a killer.

Was he a killer?

Yes, and no. Alex wasn't sure.

But what scared the hell out of him, was that the face looking back at him, the face that was supposed to mirror his own exactly line for line…

That face looked exactly like that of Yassen Gregorovitch.

Alex lashed out, wanting to obliterate that face once and for all. Wanting to destroy all evidence of any connection, however tenuous, that existed between him and the assassin. _The assassin_, Alex reminded himself.

Alex slammed his hand into the mirror, watching with a degree of horrified fascination as cracks rippled out from where his hand had struck the glass, splintering his reflection, and blood seeped over his hand, running bright red spirals around his arm.

Alex stood there for a moment, staring absently at his bleeding hand. It hurt. Not just a dull ache, not a fleeting sensation. It was a continuous, burning pain that cut through his shock like a shard of glass. He stared at the fragments of mirror that had become embedded in his hand.

_Fuck! Bloody fuck!_

Panic and pain coursed through him with a wave of adrenaline, breaking away the last of the stupor of shock that Alex had been in since he had woken up in a foreign country.

He had to move. Waiting to be shipped off to MI6 and tried as a traitor was not going to be helpful.If he could just clear his name, and get MI6 to listen…

He had a name for the emotion that had been coursing through him, ignored by his brain, for several hours now.

Fear.

He had to get out.

But where could he go? Every intelligence agency in the world would be on the lookout for him, and he definitely couldn't go back to London.

Alex only knew one person who had ever been completely cut off, and that was Yedit Shalom. Alex wasn't sure if he could still count on her – she might hear him out, but if she thought that he was any kind of threat, she wouldn't hesitate taking him down. Plus, she was Mossad – she could literally be anywhere in the world, and he wouldn't have the slightest idea how to get to her…

So Yedit was out.

He was on his own. As usual, he would just have to get himself out of this mess.

Alex glanced around. Once the CIA managed to get him on a plane, he was a gonner. He had to do something now, before action became impossible.

He swore again, quietly, so that he wouldn't be heard. Somehow, despite everything that MI6 had done to him, he had found himself relying on them as the good guys. They might manipulate him and send him into dangerous situations, but he had always assumed that there was at least some higher purpose to everything he had been doing.

Even planning his escape, Alex knew that he wasn't running from MI6 for the same reasons he had backed out of Scorpia. He had been afraid, not morally repelled by what MI6 intended for him.

Now, Alex was starting to wonder if it was ever that simple.

And if they caught him now… they would simply use his position as leverage. MI6 wasn't necessarily out to protect others as much to protect themselves at the moment. Alex almost had to laugh at their paranoia.

_Focus, _Alex chided himself. No sense losing it now. He had to get out, now.

Alex peered back into the hallway, checking to see if anyone was there.

No one was, but Alex's eyes picked out two cameras. He was sure there were more, less visible ones, but he was going to have to take his chances.

Alex left the bathroom, trying to appear like nothing was wrong. He casually walked by Davis' office, walking calmly and coolly towards the exit – if he looked like he had every right to be doing what he was, then it was less likely that he would get caught.

Alex had made it to the stairs before he heard a door slam open, and vaguely registered Davis' voice yelling something.

_No going back now, _Alex told himself with a deep breath.

Alex nearly fell down the stairs in his rush, hitting each one with a desperate slap. He didn't really have much hope that he would make it out, but he had to try. He had to give it his best shot, because otherwise, he was trapped.

Alex nearly fell into the guards stationed on the next floor. They pulled him back up the two flights of stairs he had managed to clear in a matter of seconds, and deposited him in Davis's office, but this time, they remained stationed just inside the door. .

Davis' face was an odd mixture of triumph and fury. Well, after all, Alex had just confirmed his guilt, and had managed to get pretty far before he had been caught.

_Perhaps not quite as emotionless as Blunt, _Alex thought.

"Did you really think you were going to escape?" Davis asked.

"You know, you really need to come up with lines that don't sound like a really bad takeoff on a Bond movie, right?" Alex asked back.

Davis sighed.

"What did you do to your hand?" he finally asked. Alex shrugged.

"Don't you have cameras in the bathrooms?" he asked.

"No," Davis said, sounding as if the very idea was offensive. Interesting, Alex thought, though not necessarily helpful. "What did you do?"

"I hit the mirror," Alex sighed. It wasn't like it was a secret or anything – someone would come across the mirror and manage to put two and two together.

Plus he had glass still stuck in his hand.

"Johnson, take care of his hand," Davis said. "We can't have it getting infected."

_Of course, if I had to lose the hand, MI6 wouldn't be able to use me, _Alex thought. For a second, he was tempted to try and stop the man – Johnson – from treating him, but he knew that was utter lunacy. Hurting himself to spite MI6 was a really stupid idea, and besides – the CIA was perfectly capable of just knocking him out and caring for the hand anyway.

The guard was clearly trained well, because he efficiently pulled the glass shards out. As gentle as he was, Alex hissed when he had to take out some of the larger ones. Finally, he was done, and used disinfectant Davis offered him – the idea of the director of the CIA keeping first aid equipment in his desk was definitely something Alex wanted to store away for future knowledge – and wrapped it in gauze.

"Thanks," Alex said quietly. The man shrugged – it was part of his job, though he had never really thought about how his job might apply to the life of a sixteen-year-old British child.

"Why do you have first aid stuff in your desk?" Alex had to ask Davis after a minute.

"If I were attacked," Davis said calmly, "wouldn't it make for sense for me to be able to stem the bleeding with more than just makeshift material? Being able to give myself a few more minutes before professional help came can be the difference between life and death."

That was interesting, but Alex didn't comment. He looked down as Davis put the stuff away.

The buzz of a cell phone rang through the tense silence. Davis answered it, listening for a minute before snapping it shut without so much as saying a single word.

"You two, do not let the boy out of your sight," he ordered, stalking out of the room. Alex heard a lock click behind him. So he was stuck in here.

It was just a coincidence that when he looked up, he saw the edge of a red and white banner flutter past the window on a light breeze. The sky outside was cloudy and dark, threatening rain, and against it, the corner of the flag of the United States of America was clear and bright, even if it was only for an instant.

_A flagpole, _Alex thought, and in an instant, inspiration struck.

Would it work a second time? Luck only had allowed him to survive acting like an idiot once, and he had been younger – smaller and lighter – when he had tried it. He was much higher up here than he had been in the Royal and General… The flagpole could be weaker and older than the one outside his uncles' office…

A thousand reasons not to do what he was about to do flashed through Alex's head in one instant.

But he had to get out of here. And there was no other way besides the window.

Necessity really was the mother of invention, Alex thought, tensing in anticipation of what he was about to do. If he was caught again, he was pretty sure the guards would just handcuff him to the chair rather than deal with his antics.

One last shot, Alex thought. For Jack.

With that though in his head, Alex stood, turned, and struck out.

The first guard went down like a lightweight – Alex had managed to hit a pressure point on is neck. Trying to ignore the fact that Scopria had taught him that particular maneuver, Alex didn't even wait before attacking the second guard.

The older, taller man managed to get one strike in, glancing off Alex's shoulder, before Alex managed to grab the table lamp and crash it over his head.

Hoping he hadn't done any permanent damage, Alex turned to the window and pulled it open. The sharp cold Virginia air hit his face in a rush, and Alex looked down from the dizzying height of the fourteenth floor of the CIA headquarters. Sure enough, to his right, he could see the flag of the United States buffeted by the wind.

Below it was a fire escape.

Alex didn't hesitate the way he had when he was fourteen. He jumped, reaching out for the flagpole. It head steady under his weight.

Wishing he had Yedit's penchant for prayer, Alex dropped. He hit the stairway of the fire escape painfully, and rolled down several steps before he could stop himself.

Triumphantly, Alex pulled himself to his feet and kept running, the metal clanking of his feet against the fire escape almost inaudible.

Alex was only allowed a minute of victory, however. The sound of a shot whizzing by his head made Alex freeze.

He saw the dart sticking out of the wall at an odd angle, and realized that the CIA was shooting tranqs at him.

_Bloody hell, _Alex thought. He took the only option available and jumped through an open window, landing in another nondescript office.

A woman in a blue suit looked up in surprise, but Alex was gone before she could cal out to him. He was running down the halls, and made it to the elevator. Knowing he was taking a huge chance, he dived in, and hit the lowest floor – G.

Luckily, no one else seemed to be using the elevator today, and the elevator doors opened to reveal an underground parking garage.

Alex looked around the garage – he needed to get out, and it looked like his best chance right now was going to be hijacking a car.

Alex had taken driving lessons the moment he was old enough, and he was a reasonably good hand behind a wheel. In fact, he was damn good, though he tended to drive ten to thirty miles above the speed limit in areas that weren't crowded. He had talked himself out of three tickets so far when he hadn't seen the police officer creeping up on him, and hadn't crashed once, but Jack always said it was a matter of time.

In addition, Ian had taught Alex the mechanics of hotwiring a car long before he was legal to drive one.

He looked around now, trying to find a car that could go fast enough to suit his liking. After a bit of searching, one car caught his eye.

_No way, _Alex thought, amused.

In one of the parking slots, an Aston Martin was sitting. Sleek, dark grey, and gorgeous, Alex started longingly.

It was a V12 Vantage model; it had a 48 valve, 5935cc V12 engine, which could bring it up to over 100 km in 4.1 seconds. It had almost perfect weight distribution, and a lower center of mass – it was a car built for speed and control.

True, it could only get up to 177 km total, and for ultimate speed, which was nothing on the latest Lamborghini model, which could do over twice that. But it had more control, and it was just a gorgeous car.

Besides, Batman might have driven a Lamborghini, but James Bond had driven the Aston Martin.

_It's too flashy, _Alex's sensible part of his mind said. _You're on the run. You want to steal a fucking Aston Martin?_

_James. Bond, _the much more petulant, much less sensible part of Alex's mind said as he stepped towards it, entranced. He had to move now, if he was going to move at all, and he made his choice.

He chose the Aston Martin.

It wasn't a hard decision to make.

Alex picked the lock easily and slid into the drivers seat. He pried the plastic cover off from underneath the wheel, and started working with the wires. He hadn't done this in years, but, as Ian had said at the time, it was like riding a bike. Some things, you just don't forget.

And Alex's hands had had plenty of practice working with the dangerous and delicate electrical wires.

The engine rumbled to life just as he heard the sound of the door slamming open a ways down the floor.

_Time to go, _Alex thought, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Alex backed out of the parking space, feeling the power of the engine rumbling beneath him.

_If MI6 ever properly hires me, I'm buying an Aston Martin, _Alex decided, spinning in a way that should have been impossible for the cars dimensions. It had a _beautiful _turning circle.

Alex sped through the garage, reveling in the tight turns and swift movements of the car. It was like it responded to his thoughts rather than his grip. He could see the three cars on his tail following close by, forcing him to push the car to its limits, moving in a rush of screeching tires and purring engines. Finally, he made it to the exit.

He sped through the booth at the front, crashing through the arm, sending splinters flying behind him. The cars on his tail, now up to five, were right behind him.

"_The secret to losing a tail comes down to two things," _Ian had begun conversationally one morning_. "Driving like an idiot, and driving fast."_

Alex sped down the empty Virginia road, heading south. Once, he and Tom had been messing around and had decided to use Google Earth to try and check out some government buildings, and he remembered from their fun with trying to find the CIA that he was near some densely populated areas. If he could get somewhere where he could hide among other cars on the road, he could make a clear getaway, before helicopters and backup made it to the scene.

_Lets see if the Aston Martin is everything is cracked up to be, _Alex thought grimly, pressing down on the accelerator. He was going at least 140 kilometers at the moment, but he was willing to bet he could push the car's limit in getting to some more populated roads.

The farmland to his right broke off suddenly, and Alex made a spontaneous turn. Only three of the cars on his tail managed to follow him – the other two sped past the turn, unable to react in time.

Alex hooted in victory. If part of loosing a government tail was driving like an idiot, he intended to make his uncle proud.

At another intersection, he signaled right and made a left turn at the last moment. Alex only barely made it through the intersection – followed by the sound of his wheels screeching painfully against the street and the obnoxious sound of honking horns, he nearly collided with two other cars before he straightened out and sped up again.

Alex managed to cut off five other cars, and ran two red lights before he caught sight of a unit of police cars ahead of him – backup had arrived.

_Bugger, _Alex thought, almost disappointed. He had been having fun toying with his tail.

The police had set up a block in the middle of the road. Alex sighed – he really, _really _liked this car, but he needed to lose his tail, fast.

Briefly pausing to contemplate the destruction of such a beautiful car, Alex pressed down on the accelerator. He was going 120 Km an hour when he jumped out, hitting the concrete painfully with his shoulder.

Alex staggered to his feet, and the world titled dangerously – either his head was trying to get back on straight, or his legs were refusing to hold onto his weight. The explosion that came moments later nearly threw him back to his feet, but Alex staggered a few steps, and the blurriness cleared. The pain, however, only intensified.

Alex wasn't going to let a stupid thing like pain get himself caught, however. The police and CIA were otherwise occupied, but that would only last a few seconds. He needed to get out of there before they starting pulling guns – or worse, tasers or tranquilizers - on him.

Alex turned down a side street, and started moving as fast as he could get his feet to go. He was sure someone had seen him. He needed to get another car – the Aston had served its purpose, but now he needed a serious getaway vehicle, one that could blend in enough to get him out of the city.

_What then Sherlock? _Alex asked. He didn't have a passport, but even if he did, he doubted he could use it to get out of the country, or even cross state lines.

He had no way of contacting Jack, and MI6, for all he knew, could still be ignorant of the threat his own flesh and blood posed to them.

_If MI6 isn't going to listen, do the next best thing, _the sensible part of Alex's mind said. _Go to ground. When they cool down, send them an anonymous warning._

Good plan, Alex thought, congratulating himself as he stumbled out on the other side of the ally. No one had seen his dive out of the Aston Martin, apparently, and he was quickly regaining his balance, ignoring the sharp pain that his entire right side was covered in.

Alex staggered over to the first car he found. The small metal bits he had used to break into the Aston Martin back at CIA headquarters had left his pocket, no doubt during his suicidal jump, and he had neither time nor inclination to go back and find them.

Alex bit his lip, and made a quick decision. Hoping his right hand would still be semi-usable after all the trauma he was putting it through today, he slammed it through the glass of the back window. It shattered, and his hand gave a painful throb that threatened to make him cry out.

Alex sighed instead. He was going to have to find another car in half an hour, as soon as the police caught on to the stolen one with a broken window.

Reaching in, Alex unlocked the car from inside, knowing he had only seconds. The alarm in the car had gone off the instant the glass had broken, and his tail was sure to have gone looking for him now, though he had bought himself some time with his explosion.

Alex slid into the drivers seat expertly, and had the cars engine gunning to life in under a minute. Haste only steadied his hands, giving them deadly accuracy under pressure, rather than make him fumble.

_One of these days, I really do have to send Yedit flowers, _Alex thought with surprisingly good humor as he sped off down the road. It was just in time too, because only a few moments later, Alex heard the sound of police sirens coming for him.

The car he had jacked had nowhere near the kind of capabilities in terms of control that the Aston had, Alex had to remind himself over and over. He had to lose his tail quickly, without attracting attention if he wanted to make it out of the city.

Alex made a directional decision very quickly. He had seen a freeway on his way here. With a few wrong turns, he figured he could get on it. And if he could make it out of Virginia…

_One step at a time, _Alex told himself.

First, he had to get lost.

Alex made a few unexpected turns, shaking them off temporarily enough to find his bearings, and start moving towards the freeway. Police cars attempted to cut him off several times, and he jumped every time he saw one of the black and white cars in his rear view mirrors, but Alex finally found the onramp and sped up as much as traffic would allow.

Sighing from the release of tension, Alex finally got a chance to look around and see where he was – a sign told him we was on the 95 freeway, going south.

_I guess that's as good a direction to be going in as any, _Alex thought with a mental shrug. He was going to have to lose the car to make it over the state border, he knew.

But for now, he was willing to just take it one second at a time.

_Stupid, bloody MI6. _

…

"What are we going to do about Alex?" Mrs. Jones snapped. She wasn't surprised that the boy was reacting as he was. In fact, she would have been shocked if he hadn't tried something. But he was only confirming his guilt – and she didn't like that he was acting for all the world like he actually _was _a traitor, and she knew that her superiors would take it his actions as an agent trying to run, and not a scared teenager not knowing what to do.

_Knowing Davis, he probably told Alex he was going to prison, _Jones thought angrily. Couldn't the bloody Americans do anything right?

_Only doing their jobs, Jonesie, _John Rider's mocking voice whispered in her ear, covering up Blunt's reply.

"I'm sorry?" Mrs. Jones asked. Her director gave her an incredulous look.

"We need to bring the boy down," he said simply. "His picture needs to go out to every border patrol agent in the states, and he can't be allowed to leave the country," Blunt continued.

"We can't very well just tell the Americans he's a spy," Jones said rationally.

"Then have them print out missing child posters, with a following statement that he's high profile and needs to be found at once," Blunt said.

_If my son is a lost child, we both know who's responsible, _Mrs. Jones' conscience supplied in a tone that quickly lost its mockery, and went straight for the menacing.

"What do we do about Ian Rider?"

"Wait, watch," Blunt said wearily. "If we really need to, we take him out."

_You'd do the same thing to my son, _John Rider accused. _Me, my brother, my wife… who aren't you above assassinating? _

_We didn't kill you or Helen! _She protested, but it was no good.

_Now the voices in my own head are ignoring me, _Mrs. Jones though shakily as she left Blunt's office.

It was far too easy, becoming unbalanced, when working for MI6.

…

"He's only sixteen!" Jack snarled. "How could you possibly lose a sixteen year old _child?"_

Jack was absolutely _furious. _She had gone to D.C as she and Alex had planned, despite the fact that he had gone missing. When MI6 had come poking around the house, she had gone to stay with her parents. Alex would find her where they agreed to meet up, she knew.

But the discovery that Alex had _been _in Washington, and that MI6 had managed to steal him away, _again, _when they had been so god damned close - that made her furious.

It didn't matter that the man she was yelling at was a police officer. It didn't matter that she was standing in the middle of Metro police.

"Miss, please calm down," the officer said, looking around desperately at his colleagues for any kind of help.

"I will not calm down!" Jack yelled.

"Excuse me, what's going on here?"

The smooth calm voice interrupted the tirade Jack was about to start again. She rounded on the man who had interrupted her, but she was cut off.

"If you would please, let us carry on this discussion in private, considering you are terrorizing my staff?" the officer said.

Jack complied reluctantly. Once she was seated across from the man in his office, he introduced himself as detective Donald Walsh, the head of investigations at Metro police.

"Alex was here, briefly," Walsh began. Jack stiffened.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"We found him outside, covered in blood. He wouldn't say anything at all, but it was apparent that he wasn't injured, and the blood was someone else's," Walsh began, holding up a hand when Jack looked like she planned on interrupting him again.

"I immediately looked up his record, which was all but blank. A few minutes later, I get a call from the CIA, telling me to make sure that he didn't go anywhere."

Jack would have lost it then, if she hadn't heard the genuine anger in the policeman's voice.

"A team from the CIA came to pick him up half an hour later," Walsh continued. "But about an hour after that, I got a call from the local police in Langley," he said. "Some psycho kid had hotwired a couple of cars and caused an awful lot of trouble. Currently, a massive manhunt is going on, looking for your friend."

"He's not my friend," Jack said automatically, chewing on the tip of her thumb as she thought. "I'm technically his legal guardian."

"My apologies," Walsh said. "You looked too young to have a teenage child."

Jack laughed. "I am," she conceded, but didn't elaborate.

"Do you know why the CIA is looking for him?" Walsh asked. Jack nodded.

"I don't know if I can tell you," she said thoughtfully. "And even if I could, it is Alex's secret to tell, not mine. I can assure you though, he's not a murderer or a criminal or anything."

Jack looked up at the Metro police officer, her eyes blazing. "Can you help him?" she asked.

"Not directly," Walsh said. "But I know someone who can. Though you may have to tell her more about the situation you and your ward are in if she is to be of any use."

"Who is she?" Jack asked desperately, latching on to the smallest of chances for her ward – her brother, best friend, and kind of nephew/son – to be free of MI6 once and for all.

"You would be surprised who you make friends with when you're the head of Metro police for seven years," Walsh said with a small smile.

Jack couldn't help but share the smile, as she felt the small flicker of hope. Perhaps she could do something to save Alex after all.

"Do tell," she urged.

…

**Well? Good, bad, worth the wait, not worth it?**

**Let me know!**

**If you have any ideas, theories, whatever, do share! I thrive on hearing your feedback! **

**~InK**


	7. How To Disappear

Operation: Bury Your Dead – How to Disappear

**Hi all! I am so sorry you've waited so long for another chapter! I intended to put something up before I left for Mock Trial camp, but I never finished it. In case any of you were wondering, camp went great, and I'm feeling really accomplished, despite the overwhelming exhaustion.**

**Anyway… I'm getting seriously tempted by the idea of shipping Jack and Walsh… I like him as a character, and the way I see him, he's only in his late thirties. It could work… But I'm not fantastic with romance, so my instinct is to sort of shy away from it… What do you all think?**

**The response to my last chapter was thoroughly underwhelming. Come on… You love me better than that, right? Right?**

**Alex: Nobody loves you.**

**Me: Do us all a favor and go all suicidal, why don't you?**

**Kurst: For once I find myself in agreement with the sadistic mockery of a creator. **

**Me: See? Someone likes me!**

**Alex: You're insane.**

**Me: Shut it, or I'll make you a cutter.**

**Alex: (sarcastically) Oh the horror! **

**It's times like these, when the voices in my own head start insulting me that I don't wonder if I really am losing it.**

…**.**

"_Alex! Ian! Come on, wake up!" Jack's voice came echoing through the house. Alex forced himself to open his eyes and look over at the alarm clock on his beside table._

_It was three-thirty in the morning!_

_Ian was already downstairs by the time Alex stumbled into the living room, holding a baseball bat and looking like he expected an assassin to be jumping through the window._

_Jack was standing in the middle of the living room, having pushed the couch out of the way for a huge Christmas tree. It was lit up like the Milky Way, with ornaments in bright yellows, pinks, blues, oranges, and every other color of the rainbow. A yellow star, glittering and lit up, was at the very top of the tree._

_Alex looked around, wiping his eyes of the last bits of sleep. Wreaths of holy decorated the whole room, which was lit by what must have been half a candle shop, with candles of every color and size dotting the bookshelves, the coffee table next to the tree, and even on dishes on the floor. There were three stockings hanging over the fireplace, which was roaring with light and heat for the first time Alex could ever remember. The only light in the whole room came from the Christmas tree lights and the lit fires._

_Jack had even left the radio on, and it was playing Christmas jingles. It was like every single sappy Christmas special had collided on a racetrack, Alex thought with just a little bit of glee._

_He stared._

"_Merry Christmas boys!" Jack said, her tone sinfully cheerful. She was holding out presents to both Alex and Ian._

"_Jack, this is a fire hazard," Ian said, trying to sound reproachful. Even to Alex's ten-year old ears, he had failed._

"_When did you even have time for this?" Alex asked, unable to stop staring._

"_I work fast," Jack said smugly. "Now sit! There's hot chocolate and champagne – the latter is for Ian and me, not you Alex, sorry – and cookies. Don't worry, the cookies are store bought."_

_Ian looked from Jack to the tree and back, trying to visualize her slight form carrying the massive tree._

"_Sit," Jack ordered, pushing the presents into their hands and shooing them towards the couch. "God, Ian, I know you had to work last Christmas, and Alex had his school trip thing the year before, and I went back to the states the year before that… but haven't either of you ever done anything for Christmas?"_

_Ian tried to protest, and Alex had to give him props for putting up as valiant a fight as he did under Jack's quailing glare._

"_It doesn't matter," Jack announced, and her glare brightened into a smile that could rival any of the Christmas lights around them. "Its Christmas, after all. Open your presents!"_

"_Bossy, aren't you," Ian teased, but he finally relented._

"_I'm impressed," he said, taking a seat. "I can't believe you did all this without waking either of us up!"_

_Jack giggled, and then let her face smooth over very seriously._

"_I can be sneaky when I want to," she said. "I could be a ninja, for all you know."_

_Only Alex noticed the fact that his uncle waiting half a second too long for he burst of laughter that came next to be wholly genuine, but he decided it was probably due to the fact that Ian was tired. What else could it be?_

_Looking down at his present, Alex realized something._

"_But we didn't get you anything!" he burst out, biting his lip guiltily. Jack moved over to the couch, sweeping the young boy up in her arms._

"_Of course you did, silly!" she said. "I get to spend Christmas with my family! It's the best present ever – how did you know it was exactly what I wanted?"_

_Alex joined Jack in laughing as Jack reached for the plate of cookies with a second assurance that no, she had not attempted to cook, and that they were from the store. _

_Both Alex and Ian knew that if they were to check the kitchen, they would find the ruined remains of a recipe that Jack had tried before finally giving in, but neither cared._

"_You do realize this is the epitome of cheesiness, right?" Alex finally asked. _

"_Hey, I like cheese!" Jack argued playfully._

_By the time the sun had risen, and the candles had burned themselves to stubs, and all the food had been consumed, all three were in great spirits._

_It had really was the best Christmas any of them had ever had. _

…..

It was late afternoon, and Alex was watching the cars in his rear view mirror, trying to tell if any of them were following him. He had ditched the red SUV he had stolen in Langley, and was heading north now – a sign has indicated that he had crossed into West Virginia about two hours ago.  
_I could turn myself in, _Alex thought dubiously as he watched the scenery around him flash by.

_How do you fancy surviving being on the front lines of a war? _Alex asked himself irritably. _There's a reason children aren't used as soldiers. Besides, isn't it against international law to have kids fight? _

_And if kids are the only ones who can help? _Alex thought. _Sometimes, there's no one else who can fight. Besides, this Joseph Kony guy is using kids as soldiers, and they don't have the option of getting on a plane and running for their lives._

Alex glared at the road in front of him. His mind had been following the same track for hours, arguing in circles. He was driving himself crazy.

And he was dead scared. For the first time in his life, Alex really couldn't see a way out of this situation. Every single problem he had ever confronted with always had a solution. The answer might be an improbably long shot, but it was always there.

Now, there was nothing. Alex knew MI6 was going to find him. He didn't suffer any delusions that he was good enough to avoid detection for any large measure of time.

He was just a kid.

Alex bit his lip nervously for the thousandth time since stealing the new car. He could taste blood in his mouth from his self-inflicted cuts but he didn't care.

His hand was also starting to throb painfully, and it was bleeding through the bandage around it.

_I've survived worse, _Alex thought grimly. _Besides – the worst is not the worst so long as we can say this is the worst._

Alex had to giggle at that. He wondered what his English teacher would think of him – quoting Shakespeare while on the run from the government!

Lunacy.

The sound of a police siren behind him forced the mirth out of him in an instant. Alex swore out loud, glancing in the mirror.

_Its some other car, speeding. It's some other car. They're not after you._

He switched lanes smoothly, in what he hoped the police saw as the courteous action of an upstanding citizen trying to let them get on with their jobs, not a criminal trying to get out of their way.

The car switched lanes as well, confirming Alex's fears.

_Maybe it's just something stupid, like speeding, _he tried to calm himself as he pulled over onto the shoulder, and the police car pulled in behind him.

"Can I help you, officer?" Alex asked politely as he could when a policeman appeared at his lowered window.

"You've got a busted taillight, son," the officer said, bored. "It's smashed in."

"Oh man, really?" Alex asked, faking surprise and concern. "Shit, my mom's going to kill me – must've happened when I..."

"Say kid, you look awful young – you sure you're sixteen?" The officer said. He said it like he expected it to be a joke, but Alex caught – or did he just imagine? – the genuine suspicion there.

"Course I am," Alex said, laughing a little. It was a perfect performance, but for some reason, the officer frowned.

Perhaps the laugh had been just one note too hysterical, or the smile one milimeter too wide, or his eyes just a bit too desperate. Maybe it was nothing at all.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked.

"Jack," Alex said immediately, coming up with the first name he could think of. "Jack Becket."

It was a dangerous gamble, he knew, but Alex hoped that MI6 was only looking for a Rider or a Starbright – as far as he had ever known, nothing remained of his mother's side of the family.

"Right," the officer said. "I'm going to need you to show me your license and ID, Mr. Becket."

Alex felt his heart pounding mercilessly in his chest, and he was positive the officer could see or hear his physiological reaction to the statement.

_And makes my seated heart knock at my ribs against the use of nature, _Alex thought with black humor. There was nothing amusing in the Shakesperian analogy this time.

"Just a second," the officer said, when the sound of a buzzing cell phone interrupted Alex's panic. The man took out his cell phone, and stared at the screen for a moment.

He looked back at Alex, and the look in his eyes was far too curious for Alex's liking.

"Hey, you said your name was Becket?" he asked.

"Yup," Alex said, pretending to search his pockets for an ID he knew he didn't have.

"That's odd – I just got a text from my boss, who said to be on the lookout for this teen," the officer said, showing Alex the screen. "And he looks just like you, kid. His name's Rider."

Alex stared at the screen, abject horror shooting through him.

It was his school picture.

"I'm going to need you to step out of the car, Mr. _Becket,_" the officer said, placing a world of scorn into the name, clearly recognizing it as false.

Alex hit the gas.

He knew that the longer he kept at this, the guiltier he was making himself look. But he couldn't just surrender. If MI6 wanted to bring him down, they would have to do it with him kicking and screaming, no matter the cost to his dignity.

The police officer yelled something as the car sped off back down the freeway, but Alex was already far enough away not to hear it.

He had to get lost before the guy called for backup.

Alex got off the freeway at the next exit, and ditched the car by the side of the road a few blocks away. He had no idea what city he was even in, but it didn't matter. He had gone through this routine before.

Alex ran, on foot, for a couple of blocks. He dodged into a strore when he saw a police car driving by, and waited inside, pretending to examine the wares, until he was sure it was all clear to go back out.

Heart pounding, Alex emerged from the store. His eyes swept left and right, trying to take in anything that might be a threat. The van parked at the end of the street, the man who had been sitting outside the same coffee shop for the last few minutes, not necessarily reading the paper in front of him…

Alex's vision swam, and he turned right, hoping to get off this main street. He needed to find another car.

…..

"Alex was spotted in West Virginia this afternoon," Mrs. Jones said conversationally, pausing on her way Alan Blunt's office. "A police office pulled him over for a busted taillight in a stolen car."

"I assume Alex sped away before he could be apprehended?" Blunt said.

"Can you hardly blame the boy, Alan?" Mrs. Jones asked. "He's scared, and he feels cornered."

Mr. Blunt might not have heard his deputy, for all he responded.

"What is the status on our manhunt for the other Rider?" he asked.

"Ian went off the grid in Washington as well," Mrs. Jones replied. "It is possible that the two of them are together…" her voice trailed off.

_Then you can kill two birds with one stone – or rather, two Riders, _John Rider's voice whispered. It was her nearly constant companion these days, mocking and cruel at every word and action spoken or carried out.

"But you don't think they are," Blunt said, sounding sure.

"No, I don't," Mrs. Jones admitted. "No matter how angry Alex is at the moment, or scared or frightened, he will stay far away from anything to do with Scorpia. He doesn't want to fight against us – he just wants to be neutral. And I do not honestly believe he wants to accept the idea of his uncle as a murderer."

"I tend to agree," Blunt said. "Still, Scorpia will be looking for Alex – he is an ideal bargaining chip against his uncle, and we cannot afford that."

"So what course of action should we pursue?" Mrs. Jones asked.

"I have good reason to believe that Ian Rider will not remain a problem much longer," Blunt said slowly. "And as for Alex, send in two teams of agents to find him. The CIA has been complaining that their recourses are spread thin. And common law enforcement officers aren't competent enough to bring in an agent like Alex, no matter how young he may be. And we must bring him in Tulip – we don't have all the time in the world to complete this mission."

Mrs. Jones nodded her agreement, and continued on to her own office just down the hall.

…..

Alex ducked behind a bush for the third time, watching a blue SUV go by. He knew that the best way to avoid detection was to walk tall and pretend he belonged, but that was too dangerous now. Any given police officer he passed could have seen his photo being circulated.

Alex also knew that the first 48 hours he was missing were the most crucial. If he could stay hidden and undetected for more than that, his chances of success would be greatly enhanced. Trails would go cold, anyone who had seen him might change their story, forget things, people might mistake someone else for him on the street and send the police and CIA on a wild goose chase, and resources would have to be recalled. There was no viable way to maintain a wide-scale, long-term manhunt.

Alex ducked into an alleyway before another car could go by. A silver Honda was parked about halfway down the alley.

_That'll do, _Alex decided. Generic enough that once reported stolen, MI6 would have a field day trying to find him, relatively safe, reasonably controllable, and easy enough to drive that it wouldn't impede him if he ended up in another vehicular escape from the law.

_This is seriously exhausting, _Alex thought as he knelt by the door to pick the lock. _I don't know how anyone manages this for any long period of time. One mistake, and MI6 has me… This is almost not worth it._

Alex felt like he hadn't slept in days. He hadn't eaten since the tea at Ian's apartment after getting kidnapped. He was dragging, he knew, running off a combination of desperation and adrenaline. He was too scared to sleep, too scared to stop moving, despite the fact that the sun had now fallen, and he had been on the run all day.

The lock gave way under Alex's fingers, taking more than twice as long as it should have. Alex's hand, which had been throbbing with pain for hours, was now numb and clumsy. His other hand had small, painful cuts from metal digging into his flesh while trying to work car locks open.

Alex swung the door open and knelt on the floor, biting back a groan. He pried the plastic cover off the wires underneath the steering wheel, and with some careful work, he got the right wires twisted together. The car hummed to life underneath him, confirming his success.

Too tired to even feel elated at the victory, Alex climbed into the seat, pulled his seatbelt on, and closed the door behind him. He put the car in the right gear, took off the break, and moved off down the alleyway. Hopefully, he would be hours away and in another car when the owner of this silver Honda reported it stolen to the police.

He was soon back on the freeway. He neither knew or cared what direction he was going in, or where his mad driving took him – he just wanted to be away. He wanted to be as far as was physically possible from the place he had last been seen.

…..

Ben Daniels examined his gun for the fortieth time that hour. He was apprehensive.

This was war. He was seriously at war – and not even in Afghanistan.

MI6 had given him the order to remain with Scorpia, prove his loyalty to the terrorist organization, and gain an 'in' with the them. Which was probably easier said than done. Most of the people here knew that he was a soldier turned spy. They knew that he wasn't here of his own volition either.

He was waiting for the call to come for them to move out. He and nine others were being deployed as extra protection on a drug shipment in Somalia.

Ben was actually startled to find that he missed this - they were all dressed in black, with combat gear. There was no sneaking around, no lies, just a job. They were soldiers, not spies.

Ben had to bite back a laugh at the irony. He never thought he would actually be able to say that he missed his old teammates, or SAS training, but the fact was that he did. He missed everything about his days in the special combat forces, from Wolf's crazy eyes when he was glaring at you to the crappy food that was universal to every SAS training site.

_Focus, _Ben ordered himself. He couldn't let himself loose track now – not on a mission, not even one on Scorpia's behalf. His own side wouldn't aim for him, he knew, but no one at MI6 would cry over his death. Few would.

Sitting in a fortified bunker in some godforsaken town in Somalia, Ben had a fleeting image of his own funeral.

Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones would stand there out of duty, the former just staring stonily into the dark earth of his grave, the latter sucking a peppermint.

His own father had died years ago, living just long enough to see their son accepted into the SAS. His mother wouldn't be there either – she didn't even recognize him most days he was able to visit anymore.

Jenna, his sister, would cry silently, too proud to properly sob. He husband would stand their with a comforting and well-meaning arm around her shoulders, not able to fully understand the grief that threatened to cripple her, or the pride that stopped her from allowing it to.

Alex would be there too, maybe. If MI6 didn't send him out on a mission, he would stand there, his eyes just as stony and frighteningly blank as those of his bosses.

Wolf, Eagle, and Snake might come too, just to pay their respects to a fellow soldier cut down in the line of duty for his country.

A Union Jack, folded over his coffin, would be the only color in a dead and grey graveyard, and the box that held his remains would be lowered into the ground.

The first few shovels of dirt would thump solidly against the hollow wood, until the coffin had been completely covered…

Ben gulped down the feeling of self-pity at that image.

_I will survive, _he told himself grimly. He would make it back home to Jenna. And if he had the chance, he would transfer back to SAS at the first possible opportunity.

"Move out men!" A voice called out ahead of them. Ben and the rest fell into line around the truck as it left the building, eyes darting around. The civilians around them knew that to stay away from the soldiers in black, and didn't argue when they were forced out of the way. They went willingly, glad not to be targeted by the men with guns.

Gunshots.

The civilians screamed and scattered. Stands were overturned in the bustling market street, and people were kicked underfoot as people fought to get out of the way.

Chaos.

The Scorpia gunmen were looking around for the shooters, trying to pinpoint the direction the shots were coming from.

Ben saw them first.

"The roofs!" he shouted. The Scorpia gunmen turned their attention to the skies, firing as fast as they could.

They were outnumbered. And carrying over ten million dollars of uncut heroin in the truck they were escorting. There were ten men inside, armed with guns, ready to fight back, but it was their job to neutralize outside threats.

And if Scorpia lost, he was dead.

All these arguments shot through his mind within seconds. And Ben did the only thing that made sense. They didn't have a good angle on the shooters – indeed, could hardly see them, with the chaos around them.

Dropping his gun and letting the strap around his shoulder take its weight, Ben took a running leap. He cleared the counter of one of the market stands, and with another jump, make it to the roof. He could see the shooters clearly from here, and he picked up his gun again.

He fired twice – two shouts of pain and two shooters down – before another of Scorpia's gunmen joined Ben on the roof, having seen his intention. They had brought the fight to the attackers.

When two more of the Scorpia gunmen made it to the roof, the shooters fled. Ben and the others returned to the truck as hastily as they could, worrying that the shooters had just been a distraction.

They made it to the harbor without any further incidents. They reported the attack to the men they handed the cargo to, and dispersed, splitting up into to meet up at the base later.

…..

Alex fell onto his bed with a considerable measure of relief. He was in Philadelphia at the moment, in a motel in one of the busier districts of the city. MI6 might know he had made it here, but finding him would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. He had paid for the room with cash that he had stolen from the wallet of someone he had pick pocketed on the street. He wasn't proud of the theft, but he had been running out of choices.

Alex could hardly believe that barely thirty-six hours ago, he had actually thought he and Jack could make it to the states on their own, without any trouble.

"Bloody hell," he muttered out loud. The exclamation was followed by the sound of his stomach grumbling, reminding Alex impatiently that he hadn't eaten since before he had been kidnapped.

Reluctantly, Alex checked his dwindling supply of cash and decided he had enough to risk finding some food.

_Just a moment of sleep! _Alex's exhausted and fried mind begged. Every inch of Alex's body burned with pain, from his multiple meetings with the pavement, and walls, and other solid, stationary objects. He knew he was going to have some terrific bruises when he woke up.

He closed his eyes for a second, intending just to let his mind wander for a moment, but somehow, when he next opened his eyes, bright sunshine was filtering through the closed curtains.

Alex shot up in bed, fully dressed and above the covers. The clock on the bedside table told him that it was nine in the morning with a digital red reading.

Alex groaned, accompanied by a gurgle from his stomach.

It took him two tries to get to his feet, and much longer than it should have to make it to the door. Alex knew he looked like hell, but aside from the quick shower he had taken immediately upon entering the room, there was nothing else he could do about that. He was just going to have to try and blend in as best he could.

…..

"_Hold still Mr. Rider!" Helen Beckett admonished. "You do realize that I'm pulling glass out of your arm, correct? For the third time this year, I could add."_

"_I fall through a lot of windows," John said without blushing. Ian, sitting next to his brother, and not even looking a little disturbed by the blood draining out of his older brother's arm, gave John a mockery of a grin._

"_What was it this time? Did you trip over a conference desk again?" He asked. _

"_Actually, it was a glass door," John said, giving his brother a dark look that told his brother to give up the jokes and _be quiet.

_Ian, however, was nowhere near done having a laugh at his brother's expense. He was about to snipe something back at him when Helen broke in._

"_Honestly Ian, you're not one whit better than John," she said. "I swear, I spend more time patching up Riders than all my other patients combined. And there are only two of you!"_

"_Oh come on Beckett, you know you love the chance to be around me," John said. Helen's face turned bright red, but she remained focused on her task._

"_I would _prefer _it, Mr. Rider, if one could be around you _without _the hospital setting," she said sharply._

"_Well then, we must get out of this hospital, Miss Beckett," John said with a smooth grin. "How about we go out to celebrate with a bottle of champagne once we're no longer covered in blood?"_

_Ian rolled his eyes, but to the surprise of the younger Rider, Helen smiled warmly and nodded her agreement._

"_Tomorrow then, John, and I expect you to have managed to keep yourself from tearing out my nice stitches by the time you pick me up," she ordered lightly. _

"_Bloody hell John," Ian muttered under his breath when the nurse left the room for a moment. "How do you do it? You're covered in blood from what I presume to be –"_

"_That would be our mutual friend in the arms dealing business and we need not say more," John said, equally quietly, Ian waved aside the statement._

"_Of course. What I mean is that you're covered in blood, you look like something the cat dragged in, and you still manage to pick up the best chick in the joint! It's unbelievable!"_

"_That, little brother, is what they call pure talent," John said. "The ladies love us Riders, isn't that right Helen?" _

_Helen had come back with another nurse, who was carrying more dressings for the shredded arm._

_The second nurse giggled, and, to the surprise of both Riders, so did Helen._

"_See bro? Being clumsy has its advantages," John said with a smile._

_But behind the smile he was giving his brother, there was a clear, desperate warning._

Stay away, _those eyes said. _This isn't the life I wanted for you.

_Of course, it was only when looking back on that memory that Ian understood that warning. And by then, it was already over. _

…..

**A/N so yeah, it's a lot shorter than many of my previous chapters, but its substantive enough… I suppose… Plus you've all been waiting so nicely and patiently, and for so long, I hardly think its fair to withhold this for any longer.**

**Anyway, you know the drill; love it, hate it, could have been better, worth the wait, not really… let me know!**

**Oh yeah, and I seem to have fallen in love with the charming little flashbacks. Please forgive me for my cheesiness!**

**~InK**


	8. The Sniper's Nest

Operation: Bury Your Dead – The Sniper's Nest

**Hi there! Glad to see that some of you guys are still sticking with the story, despite how crazy I might be, and the random starts and stops that I seem to have. Anyway, I start Arabic lessons tomorrow, and Krag Maga next week, and I'm super psyched about both. Plus, they inspire me. ;)**

**Again: If I were Anothory Horowitz… Would I be here?**

**Oh, and one more thing! In the immortal words of Nicholas Cage – Cheers to high treason; Happy 4****th**** everyone!**

**(In the spirit of the holiday, Jack is going to show off my impressive knowledge of judicial case law. And ya'll will get to meet Walsh's mysterious contact – at last.**

**Whew – I really need to cut down on my ANs, don't I?**

…**.**

Jack felt like a caged lion – and she was acting the part rather convincingly too.

"Miss Starbright, could you please desist?" Walsh finally asked after about ten minutes straight of her frantic pacing. They were in an elegant waiting room; a secretary was tucked into a corner, doing something on a computer screen, with a massive shelf of thick volumes behind her. The walls were paneled mahogany, a deep rich brown, and the carpet a navy blue. Jack was reminded of the offices of her old professors at law school.

Jack seated herself patiently, sending Walsh a glare. He smiled back rather smugly.

"Must you be so secretive?" she asked.

"Only because it's so entertaining," Walsh defended himself.

"So, Detective Walsh, you find it entertaining to watch me pacing around my office like an angry bear?"

"Miss Starbright, for the tenth and final time in as many minutes, please call me Donny."

"Only if you call me Jack," Jack said, sticking out her tongue.

"Amazing – you went to law school?" Walsh asked, undettered.

"American," Jack said, her voice half smug, half defensive. "You?"

"Minored in forensics, did a tour with the marines, and ended up here," Walsh answered.

"Why'd you leave?" Jack asked, curiosity diverting her attention from her anxiety for a moment. As least having a civil discussion was better than biting her nails down to the nubs worrying about her ward.

"Justice Sotomayor will see you now," the secretary called, sparing Walsh having to answer, and denying Jack's curiosity. On the other hand, Jack's attention shifted alarmingly quickly.

"Sotomayor?" she hissed at Walsh. "As in the _supreme court justice _Sonya Stotomayor?" She demanded in a whisper.

"I told you, I have friends in high places," Walsh whispered back. "It comes from spending far too much time on the job."

The office was decorated similarly to the waiting room, except that every available space on the walls was occupied by thick texts that Jack knew were books of law. She gulped – this was way worse than stepping into her professor's offices back at law school.

"Donny!" the Supreme Court justice said warmly, embracing the detective. "And you must be Miss Starbright, Donny's damsel in distress," she added, smiling at Jack and extending her hand.

"Jack," Jack managed to choke out. She felt like a first year being strung out in front of the class for not remembering to do a reading assignment. She was sure her face was a bright red.

"Sonya," justice Sotomayor said, with the same warm smile. "Now, please – what seems to be the problem?"

Jack took a deep breath. _I'm here for Alex, _she told herself sternly. _I'll do this right – it's the least – no, it's the only thing I can do for him._

"About fourteen years ago, I finished my education in the states," Jack began. "I got my JD, and I went to London to take a year or two off. But I was also entirely broke – so I answered an add in the paper placed by Ian Rider. He needed a live-in sitter for his infant nephew Alex, and I needed a place to stay. It was perfect."

"Obviously, something went wrong," Sotomayor said thoughtfully.

"Two years ago," Jack nodded in agreement. Unexpectedly, she felt a lump in her throat – this was the hard part, remembering Ian. She had a special place in her heart for him, no matter how many secrets he had kept from her and Alex. She loved him. And he was gone.

"Ian died," she whispered, looking down. She felt tears running down her face, and she hated herself for that, but she had to keep going. "The police – they said it was an accident. A car crash. That Ian wasn't wearing his seatbelt."

Jack laughed. She didn't know it was possible, but she laughed through the tears; the sound was slightly unnerving, even to her own ears. Sotomayor passed her a tissue over the table wordlessly. Jack sniffed, and tried to pull herself together.

"Ian wouldn't even drive around the corner without Alex wearing his seatbelt," she explained. And Alex knew something was up. Even as a kid, he was too curious for his own good. He went to the junkyard where Ian's car was being destroyed, and he found bullet holes in it. A few days later, he got pulled into the headquarters for MI6, and he found out the truth; Ian Rider was a spy for the British government. He was killed by an assassin because of something he had been investigating."

Jack took a deep shuddering breath – she had managed most of that in one sentence, trying not to take too many pauses – she was afraid that if she did, she would break down again. And that was utterly useless.

"They threatened Alex," she continued. "Blunt and Jones, they threatened to send him to an orphanage and have me deported if he wouldn't do what they wanted."

"And what did the heads of MI6 want from Alex?" Sotomayor asked, her bubbly smile replaced by a look of intense concentration.

"They wanted Alex to go look into whatever had gotten his uncle killed," Jack said. "And Alex did. He went undercover on that stupid mission and he nearly died. That was supposed to be the last time. After that, MI6 was supposed to leave him alone."

"I'm guessing that they didn't," Walsh said.

"You'd be right," Jack said. "I'm breaking so many laws right now – and I majored in international law, so I know exactly how many and which ones – but I don't know what else I can do!"

_Pull it together woman, _Jack told herself sternly. _Remember Alex. He needs whatever help you can find him; no matter how brilliant, no matter how capable, no matter how ridiculously resourceful he might be, he's just a teenager! _Jack shook her head, clearing it so that she could thing straight.

"They contacted him again – they sent him to some school in France," Jack continued. "From the gist I've gotten listening to his nightmares, he only barely escaped human dissection by snowboarding down a mountain. And then they contacted him again, and again. Alex has been shot at – and actually shot. He's been threatened with god only knows what, and he's survived more than any kid should have to. He's been dropped out of planes, nearly burned to death – twice, actually, as far as I know – kidnapped, beaten, and nearly died so many times it doesn't even faze him anymore."

"So why now?" Sotomayor asked. "Why is it only now that you feel that the British have crossed the line?"

"They want to send Alex into a war zone," Jack said. She felt tired. No, tired was the wrong word. Exhausted. Drained. It was all just so much, too much, to deal with. "They want to send him off to save the world from yet another maniac in some African country – and Alex has finally refused them."  
"I assume that the massive manhunt for a missing child that the CIA is making such a big fuss over would be…"

"Yeah, Alex," Jack confirmed. "He said no. We made plans to make a run for it, but before we could, Alex was kidnapped. Now, MI6 thinks he's changed sides, and they want to 'bring him in,' as their agent described, by any means they can."

The room was silent for a good minute after that. Walsh and Sotomayor were processing what Jack had said – though Walsh was more stunned than processing.

"Technically speaking," Sotomayor finally began, "Britain has violated the International Declaration of the Rights of a Child – or at least, they did so when coercing Alex into working for them at 14. However, now that Alex is over the age of 15, that's not necessarily the case, if he participates in these activities willingly."

"What about Article 77, Section 2 of the Additional Protocol I of the Geneva Convention?" Jack countered. "Feasible measures surely can't include forcing Alex to be a spy?"

"Well, the ACLU does do a good job of making a whole lot of noise about underage recruitment in the United States military," Sotomayor said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps a little media placed on the issue would be a good idea. Have you considered just going public with MI6's treatment of a British citizen, a minor even?"

"I have," Jack said. "Alex is more cautious about the idea. He doesn't want the attention, for one thing, and for another, I'm not entirely sure he _doesn't _want a career in intelligence, once he's actually experienced enough to handle it," she answered.

"Which makes his cooperation as a 16 year old all the more ambiguous," Sotomayor answered with a nod. "And then there's the fact that a declaration of political asylum would be suicide for his career in British SIS, and possibly even that of the States as well, especially given the reason said asylum is being granted."

"Which brings us back to where I've been for two and a half years," Jack said. "I've adopted Alex legally, so officially, if I say he stays in the US, Britain has to respect that, at least until Alex comes of age. On the other hand, neither MI6 nor Alex have a fantastic track record in keeping to the rules."

There was another thoughtful silence.

"I'm not much for the legal ins and outs of a situation like this," Walsh said, breaking the quiet. "But it seems to me that Alex's problem, at the moment, is that it feels like everyone in the world has control over his life, except for him. At the moment, the priority should be finding him, and asking him what _he _wants. If he says that he doesn't want to leave a burned bridge, we can't force him down that path. It needs to be his choice."  
"Considering the fact that at least three branches of our SIS are working in tandem with MI6 to find Alex, how on earth do we find him ourselves?" Jack asked.

"We wont," Walsh said confidently. "It'll be a team of trained agents that finds him and carts him away. If Alex wants help, he'll come and find you."

"Well, I can't just sit here and do nothing!" Jack said.

"Then you wont," Sotomayor said. "You can help me figure out if there is a legal way to extract Alex from this situation, while Donny will return to work and pretend all is normal. There will be people coming in and out all day, but between the two of us, we're sure to come up with something. There may be some national or local legislation that can buy Alex a temporary reprieve, so long as he can stay out of sight long enough to buy us enough time to find it."

"Thank you," Jack said gratefully.

"Well," Sotomayor said with a smile. "Today is a day dedicated to the celebration of high treason, after all."

….

Alex wandered around the crowded street, buffeted forward by the constant flow of people. The architecture around him was a mixture of modern and old school, with red brick buildings giving way to more modern concrete and steel storefronts, and then switching back again. He felt like he was in a very deep ravine at some points, having to strain his head just to see the tops of some of the buildings.

It was strange, to be surrounded by a myriad of accents. Some of them had the distinct mark of being from the east coast, but he heard Spanish, French, Italian, and scores of others besides. It was a practical demonstration of the analogy that America was the cultural melting pot of the world.

Alex wandered for a bit until he found himself in a tiny shop where he bought himself a sandwich, and gratefully sat down to eat. His hand was starting to throb again, and he knew he was going to have to use some of his dwindling cash supply on more bandages. His feet felt entirely worn out from hours of running.

Alex finished the sandwich in just a few bites, and bought a second, his stomach rumbling.

"Long night?" the cashier asked him with a smile. Alex looked up just long enough to register that she was pretty – large blue eyes with impossibly long lashes, very dark makeup, and hair streaked with five different shades of maroon, ranging from crimson red to a bright neon purple – before shrugging. "Kind of," he said, and sat back down.

He let his eyes wander around the street, following passersby. Every time a customer entered the shop, an electronic bell would ring. Some stayed to eat, others took their early lunches in bags. Alex was surprised at the number of people who were out and about midmorning on a workday.

Was it a workday? Alex couldn't even remember. Maybe it was a Sunday, for all he knew. Alex leaned over casually to the newspaper stand, and relaxed. Today _was _a Sunday, July fourth. It was a celebration of the day that the original 13 colonies signed the declaration of Independence, which freed them from British control.

_How ironic, _Alex thought bitterly. _That I should spend today of all days on the run from the British SIS._

Alex let his attention wander again. For some reason, it kept returning to the shop across the street from him. It was a Middle Eastern restaurant, a small crowded shop which advertised kabob and other ethnic dishes.

But was grabbed Alex's attention was one of the patrons, sitting back in a chair, her back to a wall. She was reading a magazine of some sort, and was wearing dark reflective lenses Even so, he could se her head turn this way and that, carefully observing everyone around her. She was dressed in a dark pants suit and heels, and would have been almost invisible in the crowds of well-dressed people, except for one thing.

When she leaned down to open the backpack at the side of her chair, Alex saw the muzzle of a sniper rifle sticking out.

Alex smoothly shifted his eyes away from the would-be sniper, not wanting to alert her to his attention. He decided to stay in the shop until she moved, and then go after her to see what was up. Maybe he had only imagined the sniper rifle, maybe not. But Alex trusted his instincts, and his instincts were telling him that he was about to step into something very, very messy.

The woman was average height, with light brown hair that fell down to her shoulders. She was fit – incredibly so. And she had near-perfect reflexes, Alex realized, when a patron passed by her table and knocked over the coffee that sat at the end. She caught it before it even tipped enough to spill.

Unremarkable enough that without incentive, no one would look twice, Alex decided. She was definitely looking for someone following her, Alex knew, so he decided to make a move, to make the sniper comfortable enough to get going.

Alex wolfed down the remains of his meal and stood. On a whim, he bought another sandwich to go, as well as a bottle of water, knowing that he would probably have very little say on when he next managed to find some food. He didn't have much left, and the appeal of pocketing someone else's wallet wasn't really attractive to Alex. He had three pounds in his back pocket, left over from his date with Sabina, but he doubted they would be of much use here.

There was a bookshop next door, and Alex went in, searching through the shelves. He kept a discrete eye on the door of the middle eastern restaurant and his sniper though, making sure that once she left, he would be ready to.

Unfortunately, Alex turned a corner, checked the restaurant again, and the sniper was gone.

Alex went into motion at once. Without rushing, he left the shop and surveyed the street, making himself look like a teenager looking for something to do on a lazy summer day.

His care was well founded. He saw his sniper, just half a block ahead, moving deliberately and unhurriedly through the crowd. On the opposite side of the street, Alex followed.

There was a part of Alex's brain that demanded to know what the hell he thought he was doing. There was another, bigger part, that insisted that it was too big a coincidence that there was a sniper in the city the same day he arrived. One sniper bullet had already done its damage on his body. Alex didn't like his chances of surviving another.

The sniper moved through the streets, and Alex almost lost her several times. He managed to keep up, however, and he saw her turn into an office building, just a block south of the Benjamin Franklin bridge.

Alex frowned.

If she was going into an office, she could be using any floor to shoot her target. He needed to know where she was going.

Alex gave that a couple seconds of thought. All he needed was a good excuse to be asking about where the sniper was going. If she was worth her salt, she had probably vetted the building a million times, probably even worked there under an assumed name to avoid anyone getting suspicious about an unfamiliar face.

Inspiration struck. Alex pulled the sandwich out of his bag. It was wrapped in plastic inside a brown paper bag, looking for all the world like the bag lunch it was. As an extra measure, Alex took out the water bottle and emptied a little of it into his hand. He ran the soaked hand through his hair, and poured some of it on is collar, making it look like he was sweating heavily.

Alex crossed the street, fixing a look of embarrassment on his face. He ran into the office, pretending to be gasping for breath.

The lobby of the office was rather typical and bland – lots of black and white marble, a clean reception desk, gold colored elevators on the far end, big glass doors.

"Hey, did you see my sister?" he asked the receptionist. "I just ran about thirty blocks behind her, because she forgot her lunch at home."

The receptionists look of disapproval lifted slightly. "She must have only gone by a second ago, light brown hair, swanky suit?" Alex said.

"Oh, Julia! Of course – she's on the thirty-fourth floor; marketing," the man at the desk said. "You need a special pass to get up above the fifteenth floor, though."

"I just ran all the way from 19th street," Alex said, putting just a hint of begging in his voice, but keeping enough of the annoyance to play the bratty teenager. "Jules is a real nightmare if she doesn't get her lunch, and I _know _she doesn't have lunch money on her. Come on, just this once let me up? I promise I won't share any of your area 51 secrets."

Alex added the last with a sarcastic roll of his eyes, just for good measure.

The receptionist hesitated. On one hand, he could lose his job for letting someone unauthorized up onto the higher floors. On the other hand, this was a teenager, a kid! What was he really going to do? The stuff they did on the upper floors would probably bore his brains out. The kid would just give his sister her lunch and get out.

"Just don't disturb anyone else on the floor," the man said. Alex grinned at him.

"Thanks dude," he said, mentally promising himself to never use the word 'dude' again. The receptionist seemed to find the usage just as ridiculous, and gave a long suffering sigh as he swiped a card through the reader beside the elevator.

"Don't touch anything, go straight up to the 34th floor, give your sister her lunch, and come back," the man said. "Don't speak to anyone, and don't take anything."

"Whatever," Alex said, and stepped into the elevator nearest them, which had pinged open. Alex waved at the receptionist and hit the number 34 on the list. There were 37 floors in the building, he noted.

The fact that the sniper had clearly done some work to get to this particular building was not lost on Alex. Whoever she was, she was a pro.

Alex bit his lip as he stepped out onto the eerily silent 34th floor. The quiet gave him the creeps. This was an office building! Where were the people talking, the click of computers, the sound of printers? All the cubicles on this floor seemed to be empty!

Not for the first time in his life, Alex felt like he was missing something extremely important. Where was all this leading him? Alex searched through the floor for a moment before inspiration struck. The sniper was clearly scoping a perch – or, using one, as the case might be. She needed a window, looking out over something worth shooting at.

The conference rooms on the east side of the building looked out over the Delaware; there wasn't much to shoot there.

The west side of the building was all windowless cubicles. Which meant that the sniper wanted a perch that looked out over the water.

Somehow, Alex doubted that it was because she was looking for the perfect scenery to paint.

Alex pulled open the first conference room door, eyes sweeping the room. Nothing. Same as the second, and the third.

The conference room at the very end of the hall, however, was occupied. The lights were on inside. Alex moved in cautiously, and then kicked open the door.

It was at that second Alex realized that he didn't have a plan or a weapon to defend himself, while the woman in this room had at least one, and most likely several lethal weapons on her person.

Alex ducked just as the shot was fired. It hit the wall behind him – a handgun round, thankfully not the sniper rifle. He didn't waste a second – he rushed in, lashing out with his fist. He needed to separate the sniper from whatever weapons she had, particularly the handgun. And he needed to know who her target was.

The sniper was fast though – much faster than Alex. She slammed him into the wall after less than a minute of close combat. She raised the gun, ready for the kill, and stopped.

"Alex?" She asked, unbelieving.

Alex could only stare back.

"Yedit?" He asked, completely uncomprehendingly.

…

"What happened in Somalia?" Evert demanded. Yassen shrugged.

"Scorpia hand picked a team to drive off my shooters," he said. "It was necessary. Do you have any leads on what exactly Scorpia is planning? Kroll is hiding something."

"Not at the moment, no," Zaaiman replied, cracking his knuckles. "Maybe they've accepted another high profile job?"

"Perhaps," an Australian voice said from the door. Both turned.

"You're just in time," Zaaiman said.

"I always am," the Australian replied. "Ian Rider and his men shot up a shipment of ballistic missiles that Scorpia was moving. What is that man planning?"

"I believe that Ian Rider's flair for the dramatic is going to be made clear very soon," Yassen said, waving his hand. "I doubt we need to worry much about him for now; I believe his next move will be against MI6, not ourselves."

"I agree," Zaaiman said. "Though the younger Rider…"

"Out of the question," Yassen snapped, seeing the gleam in his partners eyes. "Absolutely not."

"It was just a idea Gregorovitch," Zaaiman said defensively. Yassen said nothing, but he didn't need to – the glare he gave his partner said more than enough on his behalf.

"If we can discard Gregorovitch's borderline obsession with his mentors son for just a moment," the Australian cut in smoothly, "I believe I know what Kroll and the board are planning."

…

Yedit stared for another minute before she finally released Alex from the hold she had him in, letting him stumble away. And then she was cursing fluently in Hebrew. Alex caught about half the swears, and stood there, listening.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she demanded at last, slapping the back of his head. "Is there something not right in your head? What in earth made you look at an Israeli assassin, and decide today was a good day to surprise her?"

"For the record, I saw a sniper with a gun, and I've have enough experience being on the receiving end of their targets, thanks," Alex snapped back. "I wanted to make sure that I wasn't looking at the instrument of my own demise."

Yedit said something that sounded like it must have been very rude in Hebrew.

"By the way, would you mind telling me why I got a call from my partner yesterday telling me to be on the lookout for a certain British teenage spy who's gone rouge?"

"I haven't," Alex said bluntly.

"Bull," Yedit answered.

"I believed you," Alex pointed out. "Under far more convincing argument, I could add."

"I do not think MI6 is looking to lock you away for the rest of your life," Yedit told him.

"I know what MI6 wants from me, and I'm staying far clear until I've decided whether or not that's something I'm okay giving up," Alex defended himself.

Yedit rolled her eyes.

"So who are you in the states to kill?" Alex asked conversationally, sitting on the desk. "Hopefully, not a member of the government. I mean, it _is _Independence Day and all. That's kind of cold, you know."

"Another rouge MI6 agent," Yedit said reluctantly. "Is meeting with a mafia leader today in ten minutes on a boat that will be passing by this building. They will be in the third window from the last."

"Hell of a shot," Alex said.

"I'm a hell of a sniper," Yedit replied. She was halfway through assembling her gun.

"It's an M-107," she explained. When Alex gave her a blank look, Yedit grinned evilly. "Attend," she said, and Alex groaned, remembering the many times she had said that before diving into a difficult and annoying lesson.

"The M-107 sniper rifle is a weapon made in the United States, that was introduced in 2002. This particular model will hold 10 rounds, though I only need one, and has been modified for an effective range of 3000 yards. That means that I'm accurate so long as I stay within that lineup. The original M-107 will do two thirds of that on a good day, while still being able to keep on target. This model has also been modified to use hollow point shells."

"Nasty stuff," Alex commented dryly.  
"I'm killing a nasty guy," Yedit replied. "A hollow point will punch through the glass of the boat's window, and still reach my target with maximum velocity."

"You seem to have done a great deal of preparation for a chance meeting on a boat," Alex said.

"The man I'm here to kill has had this meeting planned for weeks. I followed his trail, because Mossad found that in addition to being linked to terrorist activity all around the world, he has strong connections to Hammas, as well as Al Qaeda. The latter is less worrisome for us, but he's been enough trouble for us that it's much better for everyone in the world if he's dead. Many hundreds of people owe their deaths to him. At least two captured soldiers do as well."

Alex watched as Yedit finished setting up her sniper rifle at the end of the table.

"Why set up inside?" he asked.

"Hides the muzzle flash," Yedit answered without looking up. "Its impossible to find a trail if you do."

Alex fell into silence for a moment after that.

"What were you planning?" Yedit demanded.

"Excuse me?" Alex asked.

"You're on the run," Yedit said patiently. "I think I'm right in saying you've got no source of money, you have no one to go to. Spies don't live long on their own, especially ones that don't have the protection of a national or commercial agency. It's almost gang mentality, but it works."

"I know," Alex said. "You have someone to watch your back, you watch someone else's… I just need space, at the moment, okay? Its not like I'm going to be running forever either – at some point, MI6, or the CIA, or border patrol, or someone, will pick me up, and I'll be done for."

Yedit sighed, and turned to face Alex.

"Listen," she said. "I was in Lebanon when my father declared me a traitor. I crossed Iraq and Iran on camel and on foot, because I have contacts among the nomadic desert tribes there. I swam across the Caspian Sea into Turmenistan, where I have friends that acquired a false identity and papers for me to fly into Mexico. From there, I snuck across the border into the states, only because there are several drug lords that are involved in the human smuggling trade that owe me big favors."

"Your point?" Alex asked.

"As a spy, if you get blacklisted, you usually have scores of contacts to fall back on, people on the wrong side of the law you've helped out, that sort of thing. With a network like that, your chances of survival are much better than those of striking out on your own. Especially with Scorpia out for your blood. Though I heard Scorpia may not be a concern much longer."

"What do you know that I don't?" Alex asked.

"Only that for tactics and strategy, if I had to bet on a fight between Yassen Gregorovitch and Levi Kroll, Gregorovitch would win."

"Whatever," Alex said.

"It's almost time," Yedit said. She pulled an orange folder from her bag and removed a sheet of paper from inside, setting it on the desk for comparison.

Alex studied the page. There was a picture taking up most of it, and a list of vital information – height, weight, eye color, that sort of thing – underneath the picture.

It was the picture that really attracted his attention. For a moment, the man in it looked like he could have been a stranger – the face looked so foreign – and then he recognized it.

The picture was a blow up of the one Ian Rider kept in his office, of himself and his nephew on vacation. It had been cropped so that only the older man's face was visible in the photo on the page.

"Yedit," Alex asked, feeling slightly lightheaded. "Who gave you this page?"

"My director, why?" Yedit asked. "Do you know him?"

"I did, once," Alex said. He met the assassins eyes over the table. "He's my uncle, Ian."

…

**A/N Dun dun DUN!**

**Another lovely cliffhanger, another excellent opportunity to hear what you all think!**

**So, were you all surprised at Walsh's contact?**

**I wasn't intending to bring Yedit back, but the number of people who thought that she was Walsh's friend was enough for me to throw her back in there.**

**Happy 4****th****, yall!**


	9. Bullets Crossing The Delaware

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Bullets Crossing the Delaware

**Hey all! Just so we're all clear, there isn't an office building on Church street between Front and 2****nd****. Roberts' is a made up company, because it would be grossly misrepresentative of me to use a real company for the role Roberts Industries plays. Oh, you thought it was just a random, convenient office building did you? Well then. Forget I said anything.**

**=)**

**Oh, and if anyone can tell me where the "Damsel in distress" quote is from, you'll earn a great big e-cookie! Its rather doctored, because the exact line wasn't really appropriate in the context, but if you know what I'm talking about, you'll catch the spirit of it.**

**Without further ado, here is the next chapter of Bury Your Dead!**

…**..**

"So tell us my friend, what is the ace up Levi Kroll's sleeve?"

"It is Rider," the Australian said. "Rather, the older Rider."

"What have they done?" Yassen demanded.

"Ian Rider was captured by Scorpia two years ago, as you will well recall," the Australian said, nodding to Yassen.

"Ian, the patriot and the prodigy, the younger brother of MI6's godly double agent," the Australian said with a bitter laugh. "Kurst destroyed him. He and Dr. Three have been working together to develop a form of opiates that confuse the mind, muddle the truth, but are not harmful to the body in the long term. Ian Rider is angry at the world because Scorpia wants him to be. Kurst planted the ideas in his head, subtly manipulating him. Ian Rider is their ace. They've fed him pretty much the same story we fed you-" the glance towards Yassen was neither apologetic, nor even remotely remorseful.

"So he's been brainwashed?" Yassen asked skeptically.

"In a sense," the Australian answered.

"And Ian Rider has been buying missiles, and meeting with crime lords all over the world," Zaaiman whispered. "While we were all looking in the wrong direction, they've been planning this – this –" Zaaiman faltered, and looked from Yassen to the Australian.

"What exactly is _this_?" Zaaiman asked.

"They're building an army," Yassen said, answering for the Australian. "By now, they'll have explosives, missiles and guns enough to finish the British royal navy, and then take us on as an afterthought."

"How can one man do so much damage?" Zaaiman asked. "How is this even possible?"

"He was completely under our radar," the Australian said. "And Scorpia is an organization that has been defending itself for a long time. Kurst and Kroll are devious bastards."

"Let us not forget that Ian is a Rider," Yassen put in. "And he is extremely angry, regardless of whether or not that anger is well founded."

"Is there a way to reverse the effects of Rider's imprisonment?" Zaaiman asked. The Australian shrugged.

"I doubt a paltry thing like reason will save him now," he said. "Perhaps if he were to be weaned off their drugs, he might begin to recover himself, but it is possible the damage that has been done in his brain is irreversible. Knowing Zeljan and Levi, it is the kind of thing they would do. And even if it was reversible, it doesn't matter anymore. He was only a pawn to Scorpia, nothing more. It's likely they'll try and kill him themselves as soon as he's played his part."

"So we need to fight them?" Zaaiman wanted to clarify.

"No," the Australian said. "Rider was allowed to escape and maintain both his hate for Scorpia, as well as for MI6. That was necessary for what they were planning – he couldn't seem one-sided, or he would give up the game and tip us off before they were ready."

"Rider will not go after Scorpia," Yassen said, comprehension dawning. "He's a Rider – which means his revenge for his brother will be paramount."

"And if Scorpia has told him MI6 killed John," Zaaiman said, catching on, "he'll go after them, not us. He'll use the weapons and connections he's made to destroy MI6."

…

"Yedit," Alex was staring at the picture, trying not to panic outright. He was at least able to force his voice to remain calm, which was a relief.

"Yes?" she asked, looking up from cleaning her scope.

"Why exactly are you in the _States?" _he tried to sound neutral. "I thought most of what you do involves dealing with terrorists whose home countries refuse to extradite them."

"Mossad," Yedit began with a long suffering sigh, "believes that many lives would be lost needlessly in an attempt to capture this man, and the government of the United States agrees. He is not a citizen of their country, and he has ties to many criminal organizations inside their borders. They are willing to look the other way to allow us to do our job. There is also the fact that at the moment, the United States is finding it very politically dangerous to remain open allies of Israel."

"So why does Israel care about some British terrorist?" Alex asked. Maybe there was a hint of bitterness, of anger there, that he couldn't _quite _suppress, but Yedit didn't seem to pick up on it. She seemed more annoyed with his questions than anything else.

_Clearly, a woman who was never cited for playing well with others as a kid, _Alex mused. _Though its not like I didn't know that already. _

"He has ties to Hammas, and we connected him to several shipments of weapons into Chevron," Yedit answered exasperatedly. "Why do you care?"

"Did they tell you his name?" Alex demanded, all pretence of neutrality and distance abandoned.

"Ian Rider," Yedit said. "Its on the…"

Comprehension dawned on her face, and she closed her mouth sharply.

"Rider," she said finally. "Not your father?"

"Uncle, actually," Alex tried to make it sound almost joking. "Returned from the dead, it seems."

Yedit exhaled heavily, clearly making her decision, even as Alex did the same, but without the sigh. He knew instinctively what Yedit would choose. And he knew, in the same instant, that he wasn't going to be able to let her carry out the mission she had been given. Ian might have gone off the deep end, but Alex wasn't going to sit by and watch him die. Be murdered. It wasn't going to happen.

"It doesn't change anything," she said. Her tone was light, almost conversational, but her eyes and body language told Alex that she was going to take her mission seriously, and she would evade any attempts he made to foil it. "Sorry. The job is the job."

"Even if it was bloody MI6 that drove him off the deep end?" Alex hissed.

Yedit's frown deepened slightly at the raw anger in Alex's question. She ran a hand through her hair, agitated.

"Tell me it's not true," she said. It sounded more like an order than a request. "I was ready to give you the benefit of the doubt, but…"

"Well, it is true that I'm being hunted as a traitor," Alex said bitterly. "Whether or not I actually _did _anything traitorous is another question entirely, and seems to be a matter of subjective perception."

Yedit snorted, and gave him a meaningful look that told him that if he wanted to keep his life, he was going to elaborate. Amazing how much the assassin could express with a single glare. Maybe because it was due to the fact that she wasn't exactly verbally expressive, Alex wondered. Or maybe he was spending far too much time around assassins. That could be it.

"For example," he said, "_I_ would not equate getting kidnapped by a group of terrorists, escaping only because another group of terrorists came along, and then getting caught in the crossfire of a massive criminal pissing match with treason, but then again…"

Yedit visibly relaxed at Alex's admission. She had been starting to wonder if she was going to have to be responsible for bringing in a teenager – one of the few people who had believed her in a similar situation, no less. She exhaled deeply.

"On the other hand, what I'm about to do… impeding a Mossad officer on assignment, and allowing a known fugitive and terrorist to escape… yeah, that's probably treason, no matter which way you look at it."

Alex tried to make the words sound lighthearted. Yedit's hand immediately tensed on the barrel of her sniper rifle, on edge at once.

"And it probably doesn't help my case that the fugitive in question is my uncle, and had me kidnapped two days ago," Alex continued.

"What makes you think that I'm going to let you interfere with my job?" Yedit asked skeptically.

"Oh, I don't think you're going to _let_ me," Alex said confidently. "On the other hand, I _do _think that of the two of us, I'm going to be the one who wins. No offense, but I think, if you were to compare our track records, I'm rather ahead of you."

"Says the _boy _that was in the hands of the enemy while _I_ was doing damage control, " Yedit snapped wearily.

"An insult from the so-called agent who blew our cover at the first chance she got, and managed to get the both of us captured for her trouble," Alex muttered mutinously.

The two glared at each other.

"So where does this leave us?" Alex asked.

"Well, I guess each of us will take the path they believe to be right, and may the better agent win," Yedit said ruefully. "I am sorry that I have to be the one to take you in though, Alex."

"You seem very confident you'll win," Alex said.

"I always do," Yedit replied, and finished assembling her rifle with a final sounding click.

Alex decided that it wasn't worth disputing the point any further. He wasted another minute watching the boats passing by, and trying to guess which one was sheltering his uncle and a mafia dealer. He needed to time his attack just right…

Alex heard the sound of the assassin moving behind him, a fleeting sound that was his only brief warning before she attacked. That fleeting moment was enough, however. Alex swung around and slammed his fist into where he knew Yedit would be. It made contact with what Alex thought was her shoulder, but it didn't seem to do much.

Alex kicked out desperately; he was either going to bring the mossad agent down quickly, or not at all. And loosing wasn't really an option. Yedit grabbed his foot and twisted, hard, forcing Alex to turn or break his ankle. He kicked out again, forcing her to release him, but he still landed painfully on his back.

Winded but not down, he was on his feet at once. The two agents circled each other, looking for an opening. Alex raised his fists to his face, staying in a combat stance, ready for any blow Yedit might send his way.

"Not bad," the assassin acknowledged.

Alex didn't respond – he couldn't bother wasting his beath. He kicked out, hoping to catch Yedit off guard, and force her onto the defensive before she could attack. She moved out of the way deftly, and then circled in. Alex was forced onto the defensive as he blocked and dodged blows and kicks thrown out by the assassin. Alex didn't feel as thoroughly outclassed as he had while fighting Nile in Venice, but it was close. Yedit was fast, strong, and had a whole lot of experience.

Fortunately for Alex, he also had a great deal of practical experience, and he was far more resourceful than any teenager had the right to be.

Alex grabbed the barrel end of Yedit's sniper rifle and swung it around. It slammed into Yedit's neck and shoulder, and forced her to stumble backwards in order to regain her balance. Alex was about to grab the weapon again, hoping to throw it out the window – it would be obvious enough to force Yedit to abandon her mission – but Yedit had already recovered. She was on him in a second, wrestling the rifle away from him. The assassin threw Alex down, and he hit the desk hard.

Alex lashed out, half blind, but his blow seemed to have connected. He scrambled over the side of the table, looking for anything else he might be able to use as a weapon.

Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be anything immediately apparent at hand, and Yedit was already in front of him.

She grabbed his wrist and swung him around, throwing him into the large bay window. Alex heard glass crack as his head slammed into it, and winced. It hurt like hell.

Alex could feel the floor swaying precariously underneath him, and knew he was a few seconds from passing out.

"Sorry Alex," Yedit said, breathing heavily. Alex knew he growling something that was nasty and rather profane, but he couldn't remember what. And Yedit never heard it, because at that moment, the window shattered as the sound of a bullet being fired rent the air.

Alex balanced precariously next to the window, swaying alarmingly. For a second, it looked like he was going to fall, but he crumbled to a heap on the floor. There was glass everywhere, and Alex could feel some of the bigger pieces digging into his skin. He couldn't bring himself to care about the blood that was staining the carpet, or the fact that he was going to have to get up at some point and run for his life.

Yedit hissed some Arabic curse, and rounded on Alex, pulling him up by the collar of his shirt, staying out of view of the window.

"Who is shooting at us?" Her voice was harsh, cold, every bit the assassin she was.

"Don't… know…" Alex managed to croak. He wheezed, and blood sputtered out of his mouth.

_That's probably not a good thing, _Alex thought. He forced his head back into the game, hoping against his rotten luck that he didn't have a concussion.

"Alex, I will only ask you one more time," yedit warned him, shaking his shirt violently. Alex broke down into another round of coughing, spewing blood onto his shirt.

_It's bright red, _Alex registered with a certain amount of relief. It was too red to be from a wound in his stomach. The blood was just from a cut in his mouth, probably from getting hit across the face.  
"I don't fucking know!" Alex snapped, trying to wrench himself out of the assassin's grip.

Yedit glanced over the edge of the shattered window, and cursed again. She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and dialed one handed, keeping Alex pinned down with her other hand.

The assassin spoke rapidly in Hebrew into the phone, a scowl darkening her features. She snapped it closed when she was done, not waiting to hear what the person on the other end of the line said.

"I haven't told my director about finding you," Yedit said, returning her attention to the teenager. "Whether or not my next call is to the director of the Central Intelligence Agency depends entirely on the next words out of your mouth. So I will ask you again, who shot at us?"

"I don't know," Alex sad clearly.

"I don't have time for this," Yedit muttered, running a hand through her hair. Alex stirred, trying to pull himself into a sitting position, but Yedit rounded on him at once.

"Move and I'll shoot you," she told him.

"Who sent Mossad the tape?" Alex asked, glaring at her. "Who cleared your name? I didn't have to use my only gadget to make sure you weren't implicated."

Yedit met his eyes, and Alex saw the uncertainty there. He felt kind of bad for pulling her strong sense of duty in two different directions, but he really couldn't afford getting caught like this.

The mossad agent looked up at the ceiling, muttering to herself in Hebrew. Alex realized that she was praying again. He wanted to say something snarky, like reminding her that god wasn't exactly going to appear with advice for her, but he knew she was weighing his case in her mind, and he knew that mouthing off was probably not a smart thing to do.

"God forgive me," Yedit said. She raised the gun again.

"Go sit over by the other wall," she ordered. "Hands on your head. Move, and I'll shoot you through the leg."

"So this is how it's to be?" Alex asked, slowly complying. Every movement pulled at something painful, but he kept at it.

"Please be quiet Alex," Yedit said. Alex heard the wavering indecision there. It had been a really close call, he knew. But he never had a chance. Yedit had one priority in her life, and no debt – not even to him, for saving her career, and probably her life – could stand up against it. Nothing could.

"This is Agent Yedit Shalom, from Mossad," Alex heard her say behind him, and he knew that she was talking into her phone.

"I have Alex Rider," she said. "At Roberts Industries, in Philadelphia, on Church Street between 2nd and Front, on the 34th floor. You might want to hurry."

Alex heard the phone click shut, and he turned around, sitting against the wall.

"Sorry," Yedit said, and she actually did sound sorry when she said it.

Alex saw her move around, collecting her sniper rifle and the scope for it, setting it back in place on the table, moving with precise speed.

"You're not still going to carry out the hit?" Alex asked, unable to contain his incredulity.

"Yes, I am," Yedit said, focusing on the scope as she assembled the weapon. "And if you attempt to impede me again, you will be unconscious when I hand you over to the American authorities."

The bullet came without warning, the gunshot slamming into the desk right next to Yedit's hand. She jumped back, but she went back to her weapon and fired twice in rapid succession, in the direction she thought the shots had come from.

…..

Across the Delaware, Ian Rider smirked to himself as he saw the Israeli assassin jump out of the way. He was rather concerned – he thought he had caught a glance of another person in there as well, but he wanted to scare off the assassin.

It had been easy enough to feed the wrong information down the grapevine, knowing that there were people with their ears to the ground looking for something, anything, on him. Making it known that he was meeting half an hour earlier than he actually was gave him time to deal with the fallout, and still make his meeting with the wealthy mafia leader.

There was a part of him that wondered why he hadn't shot the Israeli assassin. But even looking into the scope of her weapon, Ian saw a younger woman, not quite an adult, and envisioned Alex in her place.

It was the strangest feeling that possessed him, making him move the weapon just a few inches down and to the left, catching the desk next to her hand. For a moment, he had feared for the accuracy of his scope – his weapon was only precise up to about 1,000 feet, and the shot he had to make was twice that. He had exhaled in relief (and wasn't that strange?) when the shot had landed where he had intended it to, slamming into wood, rather than flesh and bone.

It was lucky he had ducked after shooting, because a bullet flew over his head a second later. Ian waited until he had finished a count of one hundred before standing again. He had heard two shots, but only seen one bullet…

The answer was embedded in the concrete fence that ran around the roof of the building. Ian ran his hand over the bullet hole, whistling. The woman had fired on instinct, with seconds to shoot, and had come very close to killing him.

Sentimentality or not, he knew he would have to kill her if he ever was facing her again. That was painful – she was someone's Alex, someone's child-become-spy – but that was just too bloody bad. Ian would do what he needed to, no matter how painful it was.

Ian Rider was subject to a whole host of disorienting and strange emotions these days – all consuming anger was his almost constant companion, but flashes of other feelings (better feelings, part of his mind whispered) seemed to be surfacing, fighting with the drive towards revenge that consumed him.

Blunt and Jones would die because they had killed John, and that was it.

But they hadn't killed John, or had they? It had been the Russian bastard that had done that, who had fired the bullet that killed his brother. Hadn't it?

Ian felt an acute pain sear through his head. It didn't make any sense! Why was he angry with MI6 if Scorpia had killed John, and taking him captive, had tortured him?

It just didn't make sense.

Ian reached into his pocket. Neither did his recent, drug related dependence (how many times had to worried, feared, that Alex might get into something just like this at school?), but the white pill he downed without so much as a gulp of water eased his headache, allowed him to stop thinking. It allowed him to view the confusing parody of his anger without having to understand.

And more importantly, it allowed him to escape the shame he felt, knowing that he was abusing drugs after spending so long telling his nephew not to. When he was lucid, his addiction brought him to the urge of physical illness. The sheer intensity of his need was frightening and disturbing.

But it just hurt too much to keep thinking anymore. It was so much easier, so much better, to just give in for once. No more snarky comments at the bastards holding him captive, no more sneaking around, no more withholding information, no more secrets.

So easy.

…

"So, have you found your silver bullet yet?" Walsh asked Jack. He had insisted on taking her to dinner after a long day of pouring through legal texts with the Supreme Court justice. They were seated in some swanky restaurant (Walsh having ignored Jack's pointed glare and the whisper that she liked fast food as much as fancy food).

"Nothing yet," Jack sighed. "The problem is that the law is so intentionally vague, its almost ridiculous. How on Earth can Britain, or the United States, or France, or the Netherlands, or Japan or any other of the civilized countries in the world accept international resolutions that are so equivocal about children being soldiers?"

Jack sighed. She wanted to punch something in frustration. She had spent hour after hour flipping through massive tomes on international and national law, using a combination of written and electronic sources to try and find something – anything - that could help Alex. So far, she had come up with nothing, and the hateful helplessness she felt every time Alex left was creeping back up on her.

"I'm sure there will be something," Walsh said bracingly. "There has to be. And the longer Alex stays on the run, the less likely it is he'll be found. Statistically, 48 - 72 hours is our benchmark for criminals on the run. Normally, I would be saying this negatively, but I think in this case, its something working in our favor."

"I hope so," Jack said. "I don't want to lose Alex."

"You're extremely devoted to him," Walsh observed.

"I've been the major parenting figure in his life since he was a toddler," she said. "Ian was hardly there most of the time, and so I ended up with the job of raising him."

"It must have been difficult, to give up a legal career for taking care of a child that wasn't even your own," Walsh said.

"Not really," Jack said. "I had given up law the day I decided to go to Europe. I was studying art and philosophy, because those were the two least practical subjects I could think of. I guess I was kind of in limbo, and I never minded taking care of Alex. Do you have kids of your own, Donny?" Jack asked. The detective shook his head.

"Never married," he said. "I never got the chance – one minute I was in high school, the next I was in the marines, and I'm working late most nights at the station, so my social life is pretty limited to the people I work with."

"And dating on the job is a big no-no," Jack agreed. She sympathized – how many times had she thought about Ian in a way that was far less appropriate for a live-in housekeeper/babysitter/friend to be thinking of him?

But Ian was dead, and those thoughts were more pain than she was really ready to embrace. There had been nothing there, anyway, no matter how much Jack (and sometimes, she had to think, even Ian) wanted there to be.

"You're not working late tonight," Jack observed playfully.

"No ma'am," Walsh said.

"A girl might think that you were trying to put the moves on me," Jack replied. She was surprised.

"Miss Starbright, that girl would be absolutely correct," he said seriously. Jack giggled. "You see, I have thing for damsels in distress," Walsh leaned forward and whispered it like it was some state secret or something, and Jack had to burst out laughing, muffling the sound with her hand so that they didn't disturb the other patrons.

"Isn't that a little bit sexist?" she asked.  
"I wasn't aware that affirmative action applied to romantic notions," Walsh said, keeping a straight. "But if you want it to be, it can be an equal opportunity fetish."

"You're rather silly for a police officer," Jack said when she finally caught her breath."

"Can you blame me for acting like a teenager with a crush, when the object of my adulation is so beautiful?" he asked.

Jack turned bright red.

…

The MI6 agents were at the office building within minutes. They were already cleared to go up to the 34th floor. Four of them took the elevator while the other four secured the stairway and the building perimeter.

The agents on the 34th floor moved through the rooms. They knew they were looking for a teenage boy, the sixteen year old agent of MI6. They all had been told as little as physically possible – like any agent, he was scared and desperate and dangerous, but they knew almost nothing else.

When they finally made it to the conference room that had been intended as a snipers perch, they found an unconscious young woman, wearing a pant's suit, and a whole lot of blood. It was very clear a fight had taken place there, a rather violent one at that. Multiple bullets at the scene confirmed that.

The two teams confirmed that the teenage agent wasn't hiding on any of the other floors, and blood on the stairwell seemed to suggest that he had gone down that way and vanished into the crowd before the MI6 agents had gotten there. Given the amount of blood he had lost, they knew they were very close behind – perhaps only by minutes. Alex would need to seek help, or someone would notice the teenager covered in blood, wandering the streets, at some point, and he would be found.

The woman was identified as an agent within minutes when they called back to their headquarters in Britain. Very soon, Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones both knew that Alex Rider had eluded capture yet again.

It took Alan Blunt almost no time to issue his orders. The team was to remain hot in pursuit of Alex Rider. They would find him, despite Mrs. Jones' protests that Alex was never going to come easily so long as he thought he was going to be treated like a criminal ("At this point, we don't know if we _shouldn't _be treating him like a criminal," Blunt said reasonably. Mrs. Jones had flinched, partly from the coldness in Blunt's words, but also from the hiss of anger that her mind provided in the voice of John Rider).

And the search was back on.

…

"What happened?"

Ben felt the strong urge to flinch at the sound of Levi Kroll's voice. He had recovered physically from the beating the man had given him, but just looking at the man made him feel like he wanted to run as far as he could in the opposite direction.

The ten members of the team that had been assigned as extra protection for the drugs that had been moved through Somalia that morning were standing at attention in front of Levi Kroll. The leader of the time had given his report on the incident, but the Scorpia board member didn't seem satisfied with the answers that he had been given.

"Who saw the shooters first?" he asked.

"We all did sir," the team leader said. "Or we all heard them, rather. The whole street did."

"But they were shooting from the roofs," Kroll said blankly.

"Yes sir," the man said. "Daniels saw the shooters on top of one of the buildings, and went after them."

Ben flinched at that. He had really hoped to remain under the radar. Part of him insisted that his mission entailed getting into as good a position as possible in order to get as close as he could to sensitive information that would destroy Scorpia.

Another part of him pointed out that the less he could give MI6, the better the likelihood he would be able to leave the organization alive.

"So you spotted the shooters," Kroll said to Ben.

Ben had spent a great deal of his free time trying to imagine how his former teammates would react to his knee-jerk reaction. He didn't know which would be worse – Wolf's insensitive reminder to 'grow a pair', or Snake's pity.

Knowing that he would despite both was enough for Ben to keep his spine straight and his face blank as he stared back at the Scorpia executive.

"Yes sir," he said carefully.

"So it seems even old dogs can be taught new tricks," Kroll said, with a smile that was almost predatory. Ben bit back the scathing reply he wanted to give, and kept quiet, wondering if Kroll actually had a point to all this.

"Still, you showed good initiative in the field," Kroll said, "and that is something Scorpia does not ignore."

And Kroll left it at that. Ben breathed a sigh of relief – he would be lying to himself if he said that even being close to Kroll caused his heart to race without cause. It was rather inconvenient, especially since Ben was sure that Kroll knew exactly how nervous he made the SAS man turned spy turned (or so he thought) traitor.

Ben made up his mind then to escape at the first possible opportunity and bunk whatever MI6 wanted. They hadn't given him any explicit orders anyway, so nothing he did could actually be considered as disobedience.

Knowing that he was going to break free within the near future was an immense comfort. All he had to do now was keep his eyes open, and stay alive long enough to get that chance.

…...

"Mr. Rider, the last time we spoke, you were trying to kill me," Felix Dawns drawled, taking a sip of champagne.

"I try and kill a lot of people," he said. "But, fortunately for you, my homicidal rage is not directed towards you, but my former employers."

"Interesting," Felix said. "That sounds like there is a very interesting side story to it."

"Not even a little," Ian said. "Actually, its rather boring, compared to some."

"So please tell me why I should not have you shot immediately?" Felix asked casually. "You are after all, a former spy, rather unpredictable, dangerous, and forever trying to play every side at the same time. Your profession is most… distasteful."

"Well, I came a very long way to call in a rather small favor," Ian said.

"What favor would that be, I wonder," Felix commented. Ian raised his eyes pointedly, and Felix went pale.

_The room was dark and smoky, filled with the slightly cloying smell of incense. The only light came from flickering candles, surrounding the room with an eerie glow. Flexi woke up slowly, his mind thinking slowly through the haze of drugs. _

_Tall figures moved around, chanting in a low, guttural language that was unfamiliar to the small boy. Their faces and bodies were obscured by dark red cloaks._

_Strange symbols decorated the walls around, and Felix tried to turn his head, and found his movement to be severely limited. He was tied to a table, naked from the waist up. _

_No, not a table, Felix slowly realized. An altar._

_It was like something out of a bad horror movie, except that this was real. Horrifyingly, absurdly real._

_His heart began to race with that knowledge, adrenaline helping to sweep the cobwebs from his mind. The changing grew louder and faster, the moving figures turning into a red blur that made Felix dizzy just to look – and then one of them broke away from the frenzied circle, raising a knife high above his head, positioned to pierce Felix's heart with a single blow; the child closed his eyes, beyond screaming or crying or calling for help…_

_And then a gunshot was fired._

"_Nobody move, MI6!" a strong clear voice called. The chanting stopped at once, and Felix gave a sob of relief, seeing one of the hooded figures holding a gun on the rest. It was smoking slightly._

_Ian Rider moved forward, one hand still holding the gun on the cult members. The other cut Felix free with a Swiss army knife._

"_You okay kid?" he asked. Felix nodded, feeling out of breath, too cowed to talk. _

"_Help is on the way, just sit tight," Ian told him. _

_The child rescued from a cult meeting in a dark corner of London vanished later that night, and he wasn't found for over a decade – the next time Ian saw the boy he had rescued, it was on a cruise ship in the Prince William sound, while trying to track down a mafia leader. _

"You are calling in _that _for a matter of revenge?" he demanded.

"Well, I doubt I'll live long enough to collect otherwise, and what I'm asking is sufficiently dangerous that you can consider us square, if I do manage to survive."

"And if I consider you shooting at me to be payment enough?"

"We can always try again," Ian said humorlessly.

"You seem to be bereft of a weapon at the moment," Felix commented.

"Am I?" Ian was smirking, and Felix wanted nothing more than to wipe that irritating smile off the man's face.

"Don't be coy," Felix snapped.

"I am no such thing," Ian agreed. "However, I want to ask you again, because at some point or other, you do need to learn this lesson – are you sure I'm not carrying a weapon on me at the moment?" Felix stared at him, and then nodded, wide-eyed.

"Would you stake your life on it?"

There was no response. Instead, Felix took a large gulp of champagne to calm himself, and to steel himself to get down to the matter at hand. He very much doubted Ian would shoot him – there was, after all, a world of difference between shooting _at _someone, and _shooting _someone. And besides, when it came to it, he did owe Ian Rider a lot. If this was how he wanted to be repaid, then Felix would do so gladly, a hundred times over.

"So why, Ian Rider, have you sought me out, after all these years?" the mafia leader asked.

"I'm rather interested in that myself," a younger male voice said from the doorway.

Both men turned to see Alex standing there, soaking wet, trembling slightly from the cold. His eyes were narrowed in anger, and his lips were pursed, as if he was biting back something really foul he longed to say. Every bit of his body language told Ian that he was desperate and angry, which were two very bad combinations when mixed with weapons.

Or they could be very good ones, depending on whether or not your intention was to die in a blaze of fire and steel, Ian mused.

But the eyes of the two men were drawn not to the teenagers face, which belonged on some avenging angel, but to the gun that he held in his hands, raised to eye level, pointing directly at them.

"Hello Alex," Ian said. "I'm glad to see you survived Yassen Gregorovitch."

…..

**A/N: So its not a cliffhanger per say, which is rather unusual for me these days. **

**So, any theories? What is the function of Roberts Industries? Will Ian be saved? How will the final war play out between Scorpia and the usurpers? Who will win? Will Jack and Walsh fall in love? What is Alex planning to do with that gun?**

**All interesting questions, all unanswered (except of course, for the first and last of them). **

**What are your thoughts?**

**~InK**


	10. Alex In Wonderland

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Alex In Wonderland

**Hey all! Glad to see me? I bet you are. See, I'm very proud of this chapter. It's a nice, long, action packed update!**

**Ian has this weird thing going on where he's pretty much entirely sane-looking, but he's kind of... the English equivalent to the Hebrew expression I want to use is 'not all is well upstairs' but it loses something in translation. **

**Also, He's beginning to annoy me, and I can't wait for the scene I have planned for the next chapter, in which he gets beaten senseless. Or rather, gets some sense beaten into him. Or both.**

**My point is, at this point, I think I'm getting rather annoyed by all of his equivocation, and I need him to do something, rather than be paralyzed by non-action by his drug-fuelled musings. **

**Also, I'm pretty sure Felix sucks at his job, and he, along with everyone who works for him, is getting fired. They just really, really suck at their jobs apparently. .**

**Have a wonderful evening, and remember to review!**

**...**

"Did Alex say anything?"

Even over a video conference, Alan Blunt's voice still sounded severe, Yedit thought sourly.

"He seemed to blame MI6 for driving Ian Rider to the point of insanity," she said very carefully. "But I do not think Alex is thinking quite rationally himself at the moment – I've seen it before in agents, Director; they get pushed into a corner and get scared and desperate, and they lash out."

"Alex does not have problems operating under stress," Blunt said, dismissing her defense of the teenager. "Do you have any idea where he might be headed?"

"_I can't let you bring me in," Alex said from over by the wall. Yedit sighed._

"_I know."_

"_Then let me go!" _

"_I can't do that either," Yedit said. She was examining the skyline for any possible shooter, but whoever had fired was keeping out of sight, for now._

"_Where would you go anyway, Alex?" she continued. "You have no one, you have no recourses, you're running low on money, you have no weapon… What exactly do you hope to achieve by running?"_

"_If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't be running," Alex muttered. "All I need is time."_

_Yedit bit her lip. She was going to get into so much trouble for this…_

"_Dani and I set up a safe house in Boston," she said finally. "Mossad doesn't know about it – we set it up just in case any of our ops went bad, and Mossad needed plausible deniability as to where we were. I hid there when I was on my way to Virginia, hoping to get Davis to listen to me. It's at the corner of Bartlett and Green, in Charleston. Apartment number 113."_

_Alex's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Yedit didn't blame him – she would have suspected a trap too, if she had been in Alex's position._

"_The key is the specialized, bright green one on my keyring," Yedit went on before she could second-guess herself. "It has a dragon on it."_

"_Thank you," Alex said carefully._

"_Just a warning Alex," Yedit said, not looking at the teenager. "Mossad believes that he intends to use his underworld connections to carry out some massive terrorist attack. Ian has purchased enough weapons and ammunition to fight a small war with a third world dictator. He's met with extremist fighters who were trained in Chechnya, and who were part of the original Taliban. He's purchased ballistic missiles, and I know for a fact that he has enlisted the help of experts in the field of jamming Patriot missiles. He may be beyond even your help."_

"_No one is beyond help," Alex said, and he made his move. _

"Not really," Yedit said. "I only know what I would do in the same situation."

"Care to elaborate?" Blunt asked, bringing Yedit back to the present with a jolt.

"I'd go to ground until the search moved on," she answered calmly, showing no sign that she had been even a little disconcerted. "I'd stay somewhere very close by, probably even in the same city, since most newbies panic and make the mistake of trying to get as far away from where they were sighted as they can, as quickly as they can. I'd change my identity, switch out my passport, and head south. I'd sneak across the border into Mexico, and then use my contacts to go from there."

It was the same assessment she had given her own director, and it made sense. Yedit forced down the guilt she felt at the lie, but she had decided to make her choice. She wasn't choosing between betraying Israel and protecting a friend – Alex posed to threat to her country – or any other, really.

"And you think Alex would do something like this?" Blunt asked.

"I don't know," Yedit shrugged. "Alex isn't some panicking newbie, Director. He's a trained agent. If anything, he knows what he's doing. But keep in mind that he has no recourses. No money, nothing. At this point, I think you'd probably find him sleeping on a park bench somewhere. He doesn't have the backing to stay missing very long."

"Do you know what he might be trying to do?" Blunt continued.

"I'm sorry," Yedit shrugged. "I was more worried about trying to sight my target while I was under fire when I was knocked out. I can't be of any more help."

The picture went blank without so much as a farewell. Yedit nodded to the CIA agent operating the screen, and left.

…

"Put your weapons on the floor," Alex ordered. Felix glanced at Ian. The older man's face was impassive.

"Alex," he said warningly.

"Don't make me ask twice," Alex said.

Felix sighed, and with extremely exaggerated movements, put his 9mm handgun on the floor, and kicked it away from him. Ian did the same, with Felix casting him a wide-eyed look - he was rather put out that even after his men has searched Ian, the man had still managed to keep a weapon within easy access.

"And your backups," Alex ordered. Felix pulled another gun out of a holster at his anke, and Ian removed a combat knife from his sleeve.

When they were disarmed, Alex took a few steps closer to the men.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked Ian pointedly.

"What are you talking about?" Ian asked innocently. Alex snorted.

"Ian, enough with this attitude that I'm a child who can't handle the truth," he snapped, impatient. "I'm not a child anymore. Not by a long shot. So don't treat me like one. Tell me what is going on."

Ian seemed to be trying to stall for time. He pulled a small bottle from his jacket pocket and was fiddling with it.

"What are those?" Alex asked, almost absently. Wordlessly, Ian tossed it over to him. Alex examined the label, and his expression of curiosity turned to disgust as he read. He threw the bottle of pills back as his uncle as if he was hoping to hit the man in the head with them.

"Drugs, Ian?" he asked in the most scathing tone he could, trying to mask the fear he was feeling. Fear that Yedit was right, that this was a misguided venture that could only end in tragedy. Ian, to his credit, merely caught the bottle and pocketed it, refusing to rise to his nephews bait.

"If you have a point, I suggest you make it Alex, because Felix here is a few minutes away from calling for his guards to come and drag you away, or shoot you," Ian said reasonably.

"Just tell me why," Alex snapped. "Why buy missiles, why collect enough weapons to take over a small country?"

Alex thought he might have imagined the look of sympathy on Ian's face before it twisted into a sneer.

"Because I can," he said, and Alex felt his stomach plummet. "I can take revenge for John, and for Helen, and for the crap that MI6 put both of us through, and now, I'm going to."

_It wasn't supposed to be like this, _Alex thought desperately, looking at his uncle. He barely recognized the man. Honestly, Alex had wondered if he really knew the man after he had died, and now he knew that he had no idea who Ian Rider was. He had spent Alex's whole life lying to him, keeping secrets, playing this stupid game.

And Alex was done with it. Done with it all. _To hell with MI6, to hell with Ian, to hell with all of these damn, bloody spies!_

"So you mean to kill Blunt and Jones?" Alex asked, wanting to be sure, even through the litany of curses that was crowding his head.

"Along with many others, yes," Ian said. There was something curious in his voice – Alex didn't hear it, because he was fuming over what his uncle had actually said, but Felix heard the challenge in the spy's voice – he sounded almost like he was trying to goad Alex, to see what his reaction would be.

"You're mad," Alex said, shaking his head. "Barking, bloody mad."

"And you're out of time Alex."

Alex's head snapped towards Felix, who hadn't spoken until now. A second later, he heard the pounding footsteps – it seemed that the other guards on the yact had found the two men he had knocked out to get onboard without raising an alarm.

Alex cast a last desperate look at his uncle, hesitating for the one crucial second he should have used to run. There was no sympathy there, and Alex felt the gun wrenched from his hand.

All at once, he seemed to remember that he was in a very dangerous situation, and he struggled violently against the guards that were trying to take him down. He kicked one away from him and reached down, grabbing what he thought was his gun (well, really, Yedit's gun), and firing. One of the men cried out in pain, but Alex didn't look to see if the shot had injured or killed him.

He fired twice more, but his clip was only half full to begin with, and he soon found himself lashing out with his fists and his feet, trying to resist as much as possible. There was no blocking every hit that came his way – Alex counted six men still standing and fighting – and he had to ignore the bursts of pain that exploded when they did land. He tried to disarm them whenever he saw guns or knives, but it became clear that they weren't shooting now that he no longer had a gun, and trying to wrestle their knives away only resulted in long cuts up and down his arms.

One of them managed to land a particularly hard punch to his stomach, forcing Alex to double over, winded. Another kicked his feet out from underneath him, sending the teenager sprawling onto the floor, fighting for oxygen for the second time in what felt like as many hours. Probably even less, Alex would later reflect. One of them Alex, hitting him square in the chest. Plain exploded, seemingly emanating from the gunshot wound just above his heart, and Alex thought that one or more of his ribs had cracked from the blow.

For a moment, it looked like the fight was over, but Alex kicked out from his position on the floor, blindly lashing out with his legs, buying himself enough time to pull himself back up to his feet and into a fighting stance once again, ignoring the pain in his abdomen.

He made it into the hallway, and he knew that his smaller size was giving him the advantage in the awkward space.

Alex spotted another door, and hoping against hope that this would world, slammed in open, right into the face of one of the man trying to bring him down. Without waiting to see what kind of damage it had done, Alex ran down the rest of the hall, making it up to the deck before any of the others could catch up with him. He barely even registered the fact that it was raining, again. Its not like London was exactly the sunniest place in the world either.

Alex knew he only had seconds left, and he decided that the only way he was going to get off the ship was the same way he had gotten onto it. He dived over the edge just as his pursuers broke out into the open, guns drawn. But Alex was already gone, hidden by the murky waters of the Delaware, and the mist of rain that was falling all around them.

...

"Put your hands up, Ian," Felix said calmly, when his men returned, telling him that Alex had vanished. He didn't look even the slightest bit surprised.

Ian quirked an eyebrow and fought the urge to laugh.

"Are you going to shoot me, Felix?" he asked. "I can grab my gun and fire three rounds before you so much as pick up the Sig* you've hidden in the table."

"Any one of my men could have a round in you before you did," Felix said, all too calmly. "But before you start shooting, I'd reconsider. Especially since your nephew has already killed two MI6 agents."

Ian eyed Felix like he thought the younger man was lying. Finally, he looked down, shaking his head, and laughing just a little.

"Well done Felix," he said. "You really had me going there. When did MI6 turn you into their mole in the world of American gun sales?"

"I've been MI6 for several years now," Felix said. "I usually work in the UK, dealing with gun shipments in the UK, but I got reassigned, just to track you down."

"I'm flattered," Ian said. "Did MI6 not have faith that Mossad was capable of shooting me? Their agent came about three inches away from killing me about an hour ago, and she was firing on instinct, without even sighting."

"Good shot," Felix said absently. "I do have to congratulate you on that misleading bit of information. Rather inspired, really. I wouldn't have thought of it on my own." Ian bowed slightly to the younger man.

"I am one of the best," he said.

"Were, Ian," Felix said. Ian didn't argue. He looked from Felix to the men that had returned.

"So I guess now you call MI6, tell them that I'm barking mad, and have me in custody, and then you go after Alex," Ian said, sounding resigned.

"Pretty much," Felix said. "I do have to ask though, what made you switch sides? I know you're angry with MI6, but they never told me what they did to deserve it."

"Of course they didn't," Ian muttered. "MI6 killed my sister-in-law, and drove my brother bonkers, throwing him to the wolves over and over again. And when Scorpia captured me, instead of trying to find me, they declared me dead, even without a body. Then they used my absence to turn my nephew into their spy. And as far as I'm concerned, they're responsible for killing my brother, even if it was some bloody Scorpia assassin who pulled the trigger."

"That's heavy," Felix commented, sounding surprised and angry all at once.

"But unfortunately, I still have to do my job," he added, when he saw something akin to hope sparking in Ian Rider's eyes. "Get on the floor, hands on the back of your head, laying on your stomach."

Ian looked over at the men with guns, who were eyeing him as though they were just daring him to do something that would force them to fire their weapons. He decided to do as they said, for now.

But he had no intention of going back to MI6.

Why was that again?

_They killed John._

Yassen Gregorovitch_ killed John, _Ian reminded himself sternly. Somehow, the distinction seemed important, but it also wasn't, at the same time.

_Why was he mad at MI6 then?_

_They let it happen. How could they?_

_Wasn't a choice._

_They had all the choices in the world!_

_John or England? That's not a choice. You made the same decision they did, because you knew what was important._

_John was important. Helen was important._

_And Scorpia killed them._

_MI6 left me to die._

_They thought you were dead already,_

_And Alex?_

_You didn't protect him either. You trained him. You willed him to the Royal and General, without even leaving him a real guardian!_

_I never had a reason to believe I had a better choice!_

_What about Jack?_

_That wouldn't have been fair, to saddle her with a child or a teenager, who wasn't even her own, _Ian argued.

Ian felt his head give a violent throb, and he wished he could reach for the pills in his jacket pocket. But they were confiscated along wit everything else he was carrying (a Swiss army knife, two pens, about five pounds in change, his car keys, and a full magazine clip) after his hands were handcuffed behind him.

_Its all your fault, _Ian's mind whispered to him.

_At least Alex ran before he got involved, _Ian thought. Thinking of Alex, however, reminded him of Jack, and since he so did _not _want to go there right now (_so did not want to remember sharing a kiss with her on Christmas eve when Alex was only 10 years old, _part of his mind said mutinously), he just shut himself off to the world, trying to ignore the desperate _need _he was feeling, too proud to ask for his drugs back just yet.

He knew it was only a matter of time before that changed - before he was reduced to a pathetic pile of whimpers and tears. Zeljan Kurst had shown him that, had show him that his brave and sarcastic exterior was so easily broken, just like his spirit. Ian Rider shuddered as he remembered how Scorpia had broken him into thousands of tiny shards so effectively.

But Scorpia didn't know that he was slowly bringing himself together. Ian Rider didn't quite know it himself either. But, as he had told his nephew, Riders did tend to live long past their expiration date, mostly because they were far too stubborn to just keel over and die when they should.

_MI6 abused Riders. At least Scorpia never did that. At least they gave John a choice._

_They did what they had to, murdering John. Cleaning lose ends. Would you have done differently?_

_They killed John._

_MI6 killed John._

_MI6 abused Alex._

_I gave him to them..._

Ian was barely aware of lashing out at his captors, of the bullet that went straight through his shoulder, right next to the path formed by Yassen Gregorovitches shot. He wrestled his way past the guards, hands still cuffed behind his back, fighting blindly. He all but fell over the side of the boat, tumbling into the dark waters of the Delaware after his nephew.

Barely a minute later, when the small yacht had circled the area several times and failed to find him surfacing, they gave up the search as a bad job.

Felix Dawn radioed to his bosses, Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones, that Ian was dead (for real, this time, it seemed), and stomped back below deck in a foul temper.

Of course, no one on board saw the diver who had been following along underneath the boat, and who offered Ian a breathing mask when he fell into the river.

They never saw the two of them surface, about five minutes later, Ian's handcuffs unlocked.

The diver, who's face remained covered, saw Ian to shore and vanished, leaving him with nothing but an extra bottle of pills. Ian gobbled two like they were his last meal, and settled into comfortable oblivion, starting to weave through the streets towards his safe house, knowing that once he got there, he could deal with the second bullet wound in his shoulder.

_I have to destroy MI6..._

...

The explosion rocked the ground like an earthquake, shattering the calm of the army composed of mercenaries who were hiding underground.

"Blitzkrieg," one of them muttered. "That Zaaiman bastard always did have a flair for the dramatic."

"This isn't bloody World War Two," Ben found himself snapping at the man, unable to check his temper. They were all on edge.

"Its just drugs," another man said. Ben had been partnered with him on multiple occasions, but the only thing he knew about the man so far was that his name was Rahim and that he was of Indian decent, but there was almost nothing of an accent in his voice. "What the hell are they trying to get at? Sure, opium pays well, but it's not worth a bunch of bombs!"

"They're proving that if they want to take our goods and clients, they can," Ben answered. "Its just a scare tactic."

"That Israeli bastard always did have a flair for the dramatic," Rahim muttered mutinously. But he was quiet after that. The subterranean chamber in the middle of the desert was so silent that you could have heard a pin drop, if you could listen over the sound of explosives, that was.

Several minutes passed before the hail of bombs stopped. Ben knew that whatever Gregorovitch and his ilk were looking for, they wouldn't find it. The drugs were hidden in this very room, right under their noses. He had helped his partner hide the opium here.

Ben was also sure that whoever was outside was probably Afghani drug lords, not the renegades themselves. They were too smart for that. The drug lords had their own problems with Scorpia's presence in their business, mostly because they were used to killing anyone that got in their way, and Scorpia was most definitely in their way.

"Scorpia!" The voice that came through the shut steel doors to the hallway beyond was muffled but still understandable, especially in the death-like silence. "Come out with your hands up and bring the drugs with you, and we may let most of you live!"

Ben gulped.

He really didn't like the sound of that.

He also really didn't like the sound that came a minute later, when none of them moved towards the doors. A small explosion, followed by the creak of metal as it was torn from its frame. The door was blasted inwards, and only a moment of frantic scrambling saved all of them from death by flying metal door.

The team of local Afghanis moved in, securing the room. The mercenaries of Scorpia dropped their weapons in disgust as they were outnumbered at least ten to one, and the room was flooded, filled with shouting and curses. A few gunshots fired by the Afghanis silenced them all again.

The cacophony, however, rose up again when a single tall figure made his was through the dust, stepping carefully into the room. Rahim actually spat at the Russian assassin.

"Traitor!" Several of them hissed. Ben only stared at the man he knew to be Yassen Greforovitch, knowing now, with cool certainty, that he was going to die. It was a thought that both scared and comforted him.

"Silence," Gregorovitch said, and the room fell quiet once again.

...

Alex was thoroughly soaked by the time he made it back to try land. He was reasonably certain that he was still on the Philadelphia side of the Delaware, but there was no way he could be sure at the moment. He lay gasping on the shore. The swim had told him that his ribs weren't cracked, as he had feared, but he was going to have some spectacular bruising.

_Aren't I lucky? _Alex thought sourly. He had to move –staying in one place for too long was a sure way to get himself either caught or killed – and Alex really wasn't sure which was worse at the moment. He felt like hell.

Groaning, he made it to his feet. What had Yedit said, Boston? Alex fingered the key he had stolen from the agent (or rather, taken, since Yedit had pretty much expressly told him to take it). Alex sighed. He was going to need a map. And another car.

Limping, Alex moved away from the Delaware. MI6 had to be in the city already – Yedit would have woken up by now, and they would have agents scouring Philadelphia, looking for him.

The question was whether or not he could trust that Yedit wouldn't tell Mossad, the CIA, or MI6 about the Boston safe house? Dare he rely on the assumption that he wasn't walking into a trap? But Yedit had been right. He'd been running on empty for days, and he was backed into a tough corner. He was going to have to make his choice soon – he wasn't going to survive long on his own if he didn't accept Yedit's help, but he didn't want to take it for granted that she was actually offering him help. .

For now, he would go to Boston, scope the apartment out, Alex finally decided. If something felt wrong, he would leave.

Alex took much longer than he should have to see the agent that was following him. It had taken him several minutes and a few unexpected stops and turns to make sure that his suspicions were correct, but several long city blocks and a very circuitous route later, he knew that they had been.

The man was average height, dressed in a navy blue coat and slacks, like pretty much every other man on the street. It was his behavior that tipped Alex off. The man had remained half a block behind him the whole time, pretty much keeping his eyes on Alex the whole time. Now that Alex knew he was there, he was surprised at how easy it was to spot him – he was extremely obvious about what he was doing.

_It would be just like Blunt to be this arrogant, _Alex thought, almost disgusted. You would think by now that MI6 would realize that he was far better than they gave him credit for.

It took Alex another few minutes to identify the second agent on his tail – he was much better than the first man, wearing a green windbreaker, and posing as a jogger. He would run by the street every few minutes.

Alex saw the police car coming down the crowded street just as the jogger rounded the corner right in front of him, and decided that it was time to make a tactical retreat, considering he was stuck right in the middle of all three of them. He dodged into a convenience store called 'Wawa*'.

"Hey kid, you look like you took a swim in the Delaware," the cashier called over. It seemed to be a less than busy afternoon, and only a few other patrons aside from Alex were browsing the store. Or maybe the store wasn't that popular. He shrugged and laughed, trying to put as much genuine mirth into the sound.

"Yeah, I had to chase my sister halfway across town to get her lunch to her," he said. Almost unconsciously, he dropped his British accent. He doubted a cashier would think twice of a teen with an accent, but he wasn't going to take any chances. Alex watched as the two agents passed each other outside the store, glanced in, and kept going, and breathed a sigh of relief. They hadn't seen his move.

He looked around the store, and almost grinned when he stopped hair dye near the back. He grabbed a pack of black, and went to the front with it.

Leaving the convenience store, Alex saw a second patrol car. He didn't wait to see if it was mere coincidence, but turned on a dime and started walking in the opposite direction. If he was being followed, he could lose his pursuers in the crowds.

Now on high alert, Alex scanned the crowds. He was looking for anyone that looked like him – just a bit too interested in the people around them. Alex wasn't going to risk running headlong into another agent just because of being careless. Unfortunately, almost everyone Alex passed seemed to be taking at least one glance at his ragged state, and it was making him extremely paranoid. In his state of hyper-awareness, anyone could be a threat, from that man wearing heavy winter gear during a light summer shower, to the woman reading a magazine across the street, who seemed to glance up far too often.

Fortunately, he was able to get to his next destination without incident, though his nerves were extremely fried.

His next stop was dry clothes and a good raincoat, as well as an umbrella. On a whim, he also bought a container of foundation that matched his skin tone. He was starting to attract attention in his bedraggled and battered state, and the change was necessary, even if it meant that he was now officially broke.

When he was done, he ducked into a busy Subway, making his way towards the restroom at the back. Locking the door, Alex changed out of his wet clothes. He was supremely glad to no longer be soaked through to the bone. Being dry was the best thing that had happened to him all day. He left his wet shirt on, however, knowing that he was going to have to allow for making a bit of a mess with the hair dye, and not wanting anything out of the ordinary to mark him.

_All week, more like, _Alex thought. He eyed the bottle of hair dye with some trepidation. He had never dyed his hair before. This was going to be... interesting.

Someone banged on the door impatiently.

"Occupied!" Alex yelled back. He didn't even feel a little guilty – there were two unisex bathrooms in the back of the store.

Ten minutes later, he left the bathroom, looking completely different than the boy who had walked in. He was very glad to be able to move around with relative anonymity, and the increasing rain meant that people were moving quickly with their heads down, buried in coat collars and scarves, trying to get to where they were going as fast as possible.

Alex scanned the streets. He needed to find a car and get out of the city as soon as possible. So he was looking for a garage, or somewhere where anyone would keep their cars out of the public eye. He didn't need an audience to hotwire a car.

Alex spotted at least three more agents wandering the streets while he moved, but none of them seemed to have seen him – and Alex dodged out of their way before they could.

It was getting late – the meager light was beginning to vanish behind the cover of clouds, and as if to make matters worse, Alex heard the rumble of thunder overheard.

Alex was glad that he had decided to spend his last few dollars on the sturdy umbrella that was currently keeping him dry while the rest of the world was being soaked. There was no way he could have escaped getting sick in this kind of weather.

And that probably wouldn't have been even a little bit helpful.

Alex found a garage after about half an hour of searching, and losing another agent he had seen on his tail – an agent who had very obviously seen him, and then looked right past him, to Alex's immense relief. He turned into the garage, closing his umbrella as he climbed up the stairs. The higher the floor he could find a car on, the better the chances that no one would see him, he reasoned.

Alex left the stairwell on the floor right below the roof. He found a sturdy Dodge Caravan parked conveniently right next to him, and better still, there was a map in a pocket in the door on the driver's side!

_Maybe my luck is beginning to turn, _Alex thought cheerfully, picking the lock. He pulled himself into the drivers side seat and started the car – after spending several days doing nothing but breaking into cars, he was becoming quite good at it. He consulted the map very quickly, mapping out a set of roads that would take him to the freeway he needed to be on t get to Boston.

The priority at the moment was going to be getting out of this garage before the owner of this car came by and saw it being jacked by a teenager.

Within moments, Alex was driving down the ramps. He crashed through the arm at the booth in front, seeing nobody around. He sped off into the dark and rainy streets, headed for Boston.

_Down the rabbit hole, _Alex thought with uncharacteristically good humor as he navigated the streets of Philadelphia.

_Hey, I'm Alex in Wonderland! _He continued his giddy line of thinking to its inevitable (for him) conclusion. _Does that make MI6 the Jabberwocky, or is that Scorpia? I can't exactly imagine Alan Blunt 'with eyes of flame'... And MI6 _are _supposed to be the good guys. _Alex snorted with another wave of laughter. _Supposed to being the operative term. _

Alex had been giggling hysterically as he drove. It was lucky that he had made it to the open road by the time he had gotten to this point in his thinking, or someone might have seen his erratic driving, and taken it the wrong way.

Several days worth of tension were spilling over into childlike venting, leaving Alex laughing helplessly at the wheel. Finally, he pulled over, knowing that there was no way that he was going to be able to drive safely in this state, and laughed until his stomach hurt.

Even Alex wasn't sure exactly when the laugher turned to tears, or when he started sobbing for real, but he leaned over the steering wheel an cried for several minutes after the hysterical giggles, draining his eyes of the tears he had refused to shed over his predicament.

Part of Alex knew that he wasn't exactly dealing with his situation in a very healthy way, but then again, there wasn't any other way he knew how to really handle it.

About twenty minutes after he pulled over, Alex was on the move again, all trace of tears or childish humor gone from his face. Back were the hard lines of the MI6 agent on the run, the lines that Alex was beginning to suspect were becoming permanent.

_Down the rabbit hole indeed, _Alex thought. This time, the words were filled with grim determination, having a sobering effect, rather than being entertaining.

...

Jack stared at the detective, her mouth suddenly very dry. She had no idea how to respond to that, and she settled, taking a sip of water in order to bide herself some time.

"I'll bet you say that to all the women you save," she finally said, keeping her tone playful. Anything was better than trying to be serious. No, she couldn't be serious about relationships, not when Ian had kissed her – or she had kissed Ian, by the time either of them had realized what was happening, they were sufficiently fazed that neither of them could remember who was to blame for it.

_But Ian is dead, _she told herself sternly. It doesn't matter anymore. And Donny was polite, charming, and very clearly interested. He was one of the first men Jack had ever met who was good looking, and had a heart that matched the exterior.

_And what about Ian? _Jack asked herself guiltily.

Damn it, Ian was dead! They hadn't even had anything between them, other than a few stupid (or drunken, that Christmas when Alex was 10). She was an adult, why couldn't she carry on a normal romantic relationship if she wanted to?

Why was it that even now, she felt guilty, like she was somehow cheating on Ian?

_That's ridiculous, _Jack thought. She sighed.

"Donny, you have no idea how much I would love to spend tonight flirting with you," Jack said. She had learned early on when she was in law school that she lacked the verbal dexterity to jump around a topic as skillfully as some of her colleagues did. She was far too 'to the point,' as one professor had pointed out. "But I can't, in all good conscience, knowing that Alex is somewhere out there, possibly hurt, and definitely being hunted down for some stupid, trumped up reason."

Donny put his hand on hers, immediately serious.

"Then I can respect that," he said. The banter was gone from his voice in a moment. "I had hoped to try and cheer you up a little bit, but I think perhaps distraction was not the best idea."

Jack shook her head, fighting the urge to laugh and cry all at once. What the heck was wrong with her?

"You'll find a way to help Alex," Donny said bracingly. "I'll help. This whole mess reeks of abuse of power, and there has to be a way we can get Alex out of this situation. They're definitely destroying the spirit of the law, even if they are getting out of responsibility using a loophole."

Jack nodded miserably, agreeing with Donny's point. The problem was Alex's opinion. She didn't want to do anything to make things worse for him, but she also didn't want to make a move that he wouldn't want her to. She wasn't sure what Alex wanted, and she knew that he wasn't quite sure either. He didn't want to run, he just wanted space. Jack suspected that he really did want to be working for MI6, but he wanted to do it when he was prepared to do so. But in the absence of that knowledge, all she could do was pray that MI6 left him be so that he could make his decision.

"If anything, Alex will find a way," she said firmly, more to convince herself than to convince the detective. Unfortunately, she failed miserably. "He's always been very good at taking care of himself."

Donny heard the uncertainty there and nodded sympathetically. Their moment was ruined, however, by a very angry yell. Both of them jumped in their seats, startled, at the sound of the gunfire that accompanied the shouting.

"Everyone get down!" A masked figure was shouting. "Or we'll blow this whole place to smithereens!"

Jack's breath caught in her throat.

_I think I kind of understand how Alex feels all of the time right about now, _she thought, teetering between being nervous and wanting to burst out into laughter at the absurdity of this whole situation. And then there was the use of the word smithereens, which pretty much destroyed any chance she had of taking this whole situation seriously.

The man was standing on top of one of the tables, holding some sort of semi-automatic weapon. Jack recognized the short bursts of gunfire from about a dozen different movies she had watched with either Ian or her brother at some point, though she knew almost nothing about guns.

"See, now this is just typical," she heard Walsh mutter as he glared mutinously at the armed. "Fucking terrorists show up the first time I try and take a girl on a date since I left the crops... Of course it would end up like this."

Jack knew the look on Donny's face. She had seen it on Alex's face several times. It didn't bode very well for the man, or his accomplices, who were coming out of the shadows, herding people towards a back corner of the room. It was a look that said very clearly that he was capable of tearing these men limb from limb, and he would be very pleased to do so.

"Any idea what this is about?" Jack whispered to Donny as they reluctantly followed the commands of the man who seemed to be in charge.

"Not a clue," Donny answered. Not that that was going to stop him anyway, Jack observed dryly. At the moment, she was more frustrated and annoyed than scared, though she knew she should at least try muster up some kind of fear.

But the truth was, after spending so much time worrying about Alex, there was very little that could surprise Jack. In her own way, it was an unhealthy reaction to the stress that plagued her and her ward. She had used up all her fear on the men and women trying to kill Alex, and there was really none left for herself. Not that she minded that in the slightest.

"Any ideas?" she prodded.

"Well, if either of us tries something, then we'd probably get everyone else killed," Donny muttered. "Statistically, you're much more likely to survive a bank robbery or a heist if you don't resist."

"This isn't a ban robbery," Jack pointed out. "What are the statistics on surviving terror attacks when you're complying?"

She was spared Donny's worrying answer when one of the masked men ordered her to stop talking. She shut up, but she cast the masked man a quailing glare.

...

The FBI had cleared Robert's industries to resume their normal work late into the afternoon. Kevin Davis had shown up to personally argue with the director of the FBI, but had finally ceded jurisdiction to them after about half an hour of heated (for Intelligence agency directors) arguments.

The FBI had found nothing of note in Roberts Industries when they searched it from the top down, looking for some hint of Alex Rider.

If they had gone through the files for Roberts Industries, they might have found out that it wasn't really a company at all. In fact, most of the floors were empty – something the FBI failed to realize, because the building had been evacuated before they had gotten there.

Roberts Industries existed as a front company. The CEO and sole stockholder for the company was Evert Zaaiman. He had set it up many years ago, and it was a major source of income for his illicit activities.

Most of the people who worked there didn't know that. They filed papers and recorded losses and incomes on their non-existent stock sales, not guessing that Robert's Industries had never bought or sold a single stock.

Many of the people who worked on the higher floors had been personally recruited for their ability to keep secrets, and were vetted personally by Zaaiman before they were allowed to work there. Yedit had assumed that their sales had to do with government contracts, which is why they were so tight on security.

But the truth was that Robert's Industries existed to fund private little wars over territory in Africa. Evert Zaaiman owned a great deal of land in Africa, under various assumed names, including diamond mines in South Africa.

Roberts Industries filtered the profits he made from that land, so that it translated into legal monetary gains. And Zaaiman passed off the occasional few billion dollars given to warlords in conflict ridden third world countries in order to wage their own personal wars, he passed it off as major stock purchases. The building dealt in big figures, spending and making as many as eight figures a day. A great deal of cash flooded into and out of Robert's Industries.

That was why, by nine o'clock that evening, Evert Zaaiman was stalking through the floors of his company, ensuring that none of his physical or electronic files had been compromised, and that everyone in his company had kept their mouths shut, and fed them the company-wide lies they were all trained to feed investigators. His fears, however, were unfounded; no one had said anything to the FBI. They had found nothing, and they knew nothing about Robert's Industries.

MI6, unlike the FBI, did know a great deal about Robert's Industries, not that they were willing to share anything they knew with their American counterparts.

And by the time that Evert Zaaiman was in the United States, Alan Blunt had already made the connection that Alex had gone to them under his own violation. Roberts Industries was involved in enough criminal activity that that alone was enough to damn him.

With a heavy heart, Tulip Jones issued the official arrest warrant for Alex Rider on the charges of murdering a federal officer and international terrorism. An hour later, when Alex was well on the way to Boston in a stolen forest green Dodge Caravan, he was placed on the international terrorist watch list.

_You better not hurt my son, _John Rider whispered in Mrs. Jone's ear. _Don't you dare even try._

...

*It's like 7/11. You east coasters know what I'm talking about, right?

Sorry for the digression, moving on.

*Meaning a Sig Sauer gun. The one being mentioned is a 9mm handgun. I would have said handgun, but this felt a _bit _more like Ian has an intimate relationship with his weapons, rather than just calling them guns.

**See you next time!**

**~InK**


	11. Check

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Check

**Hello, all of you! I'm sorry I left you all summer without an update... Bad form, I know. I've just been super busy, since I'm trying to get a head start on college applications, plus studying for my final round of SATs, as well as all my summer work. **

**And, to make my week, I just found out that despite the fact that I get to take Honors Film **_**and **_**AP English, **_**and **_**AP Psychology (whoot!), I have to take 'psychology of bible study' which **_**would **_**be a fascinating class under normal circumstances, but, considering the guy teaching it spent all of last year telling me that I'm going to hell for refusing to pray and wholeheartedly believe in god, and that it's my obligation to bear children because I'm a woman... I'm going for 'nightmarish' rather than 'cool'. **

**GAH. Well, at least I have AP Art first period? It's independent study, which kind of rocks. Plus, I get two debate captainships, a column in our school paper **_**to write about anything I want **_**(I chose education in the Palestinian occupied territories for my first story), and a rocking TA gig for our MME and Jewish Philosophy teacher (yes, the insane one I've been telling you about). Life as a senior is good. I think. **

**Anywho, now that that's out of the way... Ta da! I'm not so happy with this chapter, to tell the truth. How about you lot?**

...

Miles passed as the night wore on. Half an hour in, as the adrenaline of his temporary insanity and the fear of the hunt began to wear off, Alex's head had started to droop; exhaustion dragged at him, slowing his reaction time. It was lucky this stretch of freeway was empty, or he would have hit several cars, swerving erratically out of his lane as he began to loosen his grip on the wheel every time sleep tried to overcome him.

Knowing he had little chance of getting any kind of caffeinated boost any time soon, Alex turned on the radio, flipping through the channels until he found some one playing some obnoxious heavy metal, and turned up the sound. The strumming of guitars and drums fading into white noise was enough to wake him up and keep him in his own lane.

Another half hour passed in silent driving. He could see the nighttime world stretch out on either side. This stretch of freeway was quiet, almost rural. In the distance, he could see the bright lights of cities. Every now and then, he would pass through a smaller town, and the lampposts would seem unnaturally bright to his eyes, so used to the darkness of the road.

He was grateful for the full tank of gas in the car, which allowed him to keep going, without end.

Another stretch of empty unlit freeway, and Alex found himself staring out the window. There was nothing to tell where the sky ended and the horizon began, and the distant lights of some city or other looked like new constellations, pinpoints of colored light in expansive black.

Then again, even the constellations here looked new and strange. It was a very different night sky than that of London, one filled with countless stars.

Alex had been camping before, but the sight of the sky – endless, infinite, eternal, sparkling with trillions upon trillions of stars, some of whom were an incomprehensible distance away – it always filled him with breathless wonder. Even now, terrified and on the run, he watched the stars, wondering. He'd never fancied astronomy as a career, but it was entirely fascinating, all the same.

Sometimes, the sky would be entirely dark, concealed by clouds, and it would rain like mad, or just a little sprinkling of water. The sky didn't seem to be able to really make up its mind. But there was always at least a little patch of starry sky that Alex could find when he looked, though sometimes it was difficult to see, especially when he was close to a major city.

"_See there, Alex, that star is in the Andromeda galaxy," Ian told Alex, pointing with one hand, straight up. They were lying on the grass in a clearing in Yellowstone National Park, backpacking together on a two-week summer trip. They were at the edge of the lake, and if you looked across it, you could almost see the steam rising up from the geysers at West Thumb – not geysers, Alex reminded himself from what Ian had told him earlier, but hot springs for the most part, colored by the different bacteria that lived in the hotter than boiling water. _

"_It's two million lightyears away," Ian continued, letting his hand drop, and Alex looked back up at the sky once more, focusing on the cluster of stars Ian had directed his attention to. "The light we're seeing now was generated back when __australopithecines__were still around. And if you were standing on Andromeda today, looking at earth, you would see it as it was two million years ago."_

_Alex couldn't help but stare. The light he was seeing was reaching across a vast chasm of space and time, a miracle of physics, and it was just one more burning dot in a sky full of them. It was incomprehensi – _

The sound of a truck horn blaring forced Alex back into the present, and he jerked the wheel instinctively away form the glaring headlights and sound of the truck. The movement forced his car off the road, and Alex felt the terrain underneath grow bumpy. He forced the steering wheel to the left, undeterred, and was rewarded when the vehicle was back on smooth road again.

Breathing heavily, Alex adjusted his seat in the driver's chair, and committed himself to keep driving. So long as he stayed in motion (_and on the road_) he would be fine.

_So long as a troupe of agents aren't waiting to arrest me when I get to Boston, _Alex's pessimistic side supplied.

_Shut up, _Alex told himself. _Drive now, worry later. Boston is still hours away. _

...

Walsh was watching the men securing the room carefully. They were all dressed in black, though he thought he might recognize some of the mask men as some of the patrons he had noticed earlier, though he was relying on sketchy comparisons on build and height.

What really attracted his attention though, was the 'grenades' each of the men were carrying on their belts. They weren't explosives, Walsh knew. He had enough experience with tear gas bombs to recognize one when he saw it.

_Why would terrorists use tear gas, instead of real bombs? _He wondered. Clearly, they weren't suicide attackers. They were here for a reason. They were also being ridiculously showy, a trait Walsh would have normally assigned to amateurs, or terrorists who really watched too many movies.

But he saw they way they moved methodically, without conferring with one another. The way they efficiently barred the exits and shut down the power, darkening the room so that the only light came from the outside. The organized fashion in which they collected the patrons into the center of the room, and forced them into a straight line, and got them to give up all their electronic devices. He met the eyes of the man holding out a bag for him to drop his phone and watch into as he pulled said articles out of his pocket and off his wrist.

And he glanced down just in time to see the tazer gun next to two canisters which he now _knew _were filled with tear gas, before it left his line of sight.

No, these were no amateurs. And they weren't here to kill people. The guns were real, yes, but Walsh knew they were only for show. This wasn't about making people notice them. The guns – and this whole show – were a distraction.

They were here for an extraction job, not a hit. Walsh would have bet his career on it.

He just hoped they weren't going to have to get gassed. He really hated tear gas. It was asinine really, though it was effective for crowd control, especially during riots. He'd once ended up in the crossfire of a comrades shot with a tear gas gun, a weapon that fired canisters of the stuff in wide arcs, and had caught more than a hint of the stuff; that had been more than enough to satisfy him for forever. As far as Walsh was concerned, he could never see another tear gas grenade go off, and it would be far too soon.

"Jack," he whispered when the man had moved out of earshot. "They're here to steal something, I think," he said. "They're not terrorists, I don't think."

"That's good news," Jack breathed back. She didn't look even a little frightened, something Walsh found disturbing. Was this the effect MI6's exploitation of Alex Rider had had on the teenager's guardian?

He owed those heads of MI6 a few serious slugs to the face, when all this was done and gone, Walsh decided.

Of course, it would have to wait until they got out of this.

"Next time we go on a date, can we order take out?" Jack whispered. Walsh didn't know whether to laugh or stare. She was... making jokes.

And then his heart leapt, because he heard the first part of that sentence. The 'next time' part.

He would have spent more time pondering that, but it was at that precise moment that everything when to hell in a handbasket.

Two tear gas grenades went off at the same time, one by the front and one by the back exit. Walsh took a moment to appreciate the ingenuity of that move – no one was leaving until all the gas cleared away, and then he was forced to his knees by the burning pain in his eyes. It spread like wildfire, burning down his nose, throat, and lungs, blinding him, forcing him to cough. He didn't even feel the tears running down his face.

Jack had the same instantaneous reaction as the detective, except for one difference. Incapacitated, blind, and coughing like she was trying to hack up her own lungs, Jack felt a figure pull her to her feet, and drag her through the room.

Jack never felt the prick of the needle in her arm that forced her unconscious.

Hours later, the room had been cleared by paramedics, and Walsh was still crying somewhat, looking around desperately for the redhead. He asked a passing medic if he had seen Jack, but the man simply shrugged, and told him he'd seen a couple of redheads already, but there wasn't much more he could do to help him; it had been a large crowd.

Three of Walsh's coworkers had come up to him and were asking him about what had happened. Knowing that Jack could take care of herself and would inevitably show up again soon Walsh's directed his full attention to his job – he reported his suspicions that the masked men had been trying to steal something. He went with the police when they interviewed the owner of the restaurant, who had shown up in a panic soon after the commotion had started to dissolve, and the building had been cleared.

As far as the owner knew, there was nothing of value in the restaurant, nothing worth this kind of force to get at. The safe in the building had been left untouched, and there wasn't any valuable décor missing.

It wasn't until after he had turned in his statement to the station and checked the lists of people treated by the paramedics three times that he finally realized that Jack was missing.

And with that horrible realization came the dawning understanding of what – who – those men had risked a great deal to find.

...

"Mr. Dawns, so help me, I have gotten very tired of hearing that particular sentence," Mrs. Jones said, her voice clipped. "Why didn't you mention this in your original report?"

"It wasn't safe for me to send that particular information to you through the CIA," Felix answered. He sounded confident enough, but his hands were clasped behind his back, the picture of a child being scolded by their principal. "I gave the order to my men to ensure that Rider – Ian, not his nephew – escaped."

"So you are telling me, Mr. Dawns, that you, an esteemed member of the underworld arms dealing scene, is incapable of containing a sixteen-year-old agent with two weeks of formal training, even with a large contingent of armed men?"

"I was supposed to give the order for my men to shoot a child?" Felix demanded. "He may be a spy, and from what you've told me, he's gone as bad as they come, but he's still a fucking child, for god's sake!"

"Alex is no longer a child," Mrs. Jones said automatically, and inwardly winced. Felix's history made it impossible for him to accept the abuse of any child – one of the reasons he was such a good agent was because he really believed in what he was doing. "For now, I'm more disappointed in the fact that you failed to report that Ian Rider was alive, and that you allowed him to get away."

"I put one of my agents on a plane immediately after the incident," Felix said. "He is carrying with him a computer chip that can be used to trace Rider's whereabouts. He also has a sampling of the drugs we found on Ian."

"You had him in custody!" Mrs. Jones snapped. "Why on earth would you tag him and let him go?"

"I thought a few of my men were selling secrets, it wasn't safe for me to keep him on board!" Felix snapped back. "Besides, from what you've said, Ian's not guilty – he was _tortured – _I think that kind of qualifies as extenuating circumstances. You get something beat into you enough times, you stop arguing. I think if you watch where he's been, what he does, you might be able to figure out where his mind is at, because I don't think it was all there when he came to me. And I don't think he's a traitor – not willingly, at least."

Mrs. Jones sighed, but she didn't bother arguing further. Dawns was right, of course. Alan was jumping to conclusions, but there was very little evidence in his favor at the moment. If tracking his movements gave them that information, and they could clear Ian, she could ignore any lapse in procedure that occurred along the way.

"Drugs?" she asked instead, latching on to the second piece of information Dawns had given her.

"Yeah," Felix confirmed. "I don't know what kind, but your labs will be able to check it out, see what's what. It could be another clue to prove Ian's innocence."

Mrs. Jones pursed her lips together but said nothing for several seconds. She agreed, privately, but there was nothing she could do. Not while Alan had both Riders on the run. She refused to believe the worst of Alex without the most damning evidence possible, but Ian – even if he was only insane, he wasn't on their side anymore. She didn't want to have to give the order to shoot to kill him, but every hour just seemed to bring her closer to that point. Blunt, she knew, would have no problem issuing that order on either Rider.

"Keep your eyes open then," she ordered at last. "If you find _anything, _I want to hear it accurately, the _first_ time I hear it, from your lips alone, do you understood me?"

"Yes ma'am," Dawns said, but his boss had already cut off the line.

...

The sky was starting to lighten, and the clouds that had intermittently poured rain and drizzled on his nighttime journey had begun to disperse by the time Alex had reached Boston. He felt a sense of elation mixed with exhaustion and wariness – he had made it, but he had done so at a cost he wasn't yet sure was acceptable. He knew he was close to just dropping from the stress and wear of the past few days. And there was no guarantee that once he made it to the safe house that he wouldn't be running for his life again.

He had stolen another car in one of the towns he had passed – Alex had ceased to care where he was, narrowing in only on who might be following him, and where he was going. The night had passed in a blur of lights, dark freeway, and fear. He hadn't been followed, as far as he could see, but there was no point taking chances.

The wariness was getting to him though. Being constantly on edge was starting to tell, and Alex was starting to drag.

No, Alex thought as he navigated the streets of Boston, already beginning to fill despite the hour – it was 5:30, and the sky was filling with the slight green tinge of light that came before the dawn. If MI6 was waiting for him in Charleston, he didn't stand a chance. He wasn't even sure he wanted to try running. He was so tired.

_It's keep moving or get arrested, _Alex told himself grimly. _No way is the latter happening. If I can just lay low here for a few days, maybe a week... All I need is time._

Alex knew he was hinging far too much on this, relying entirely on Yedits goodwill. He knew it was stupid, he knew it was unprofessional, and he knew it was probably going to end badly.

_What's that saying? _Alex thought. _Expect the worst. That way, if and when the worst happens, at the very least, you won't be surprised by it. Story of my life._

The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon when Alex passed the corner of Bartlett and Green. There didn't seem to be anyone around, Alex thought. No big vans (but that _would _be just a little too obvious to hope for, Alex thought), nobody glancing out of windows that he could see.

Alex circled the block twice and then drove about half a mile away, careful to memorize the route. He sat in the car for several minutes, just fingering the key and trying to bring up the strength to get up and walk back to the safe house. It was an almost unnecessary precaution, but if Yedit had been genuinely trying to help, and this car was being tracked, there was no sense leading MI6 right to his doorstep.

Then again, if the car _was _being tracked, Alex was pretty sure it didn't matter.

_Bloody hell, just get out of the fucking car and move, _Alex finally ordered his exhausted body. His body obeyed, but under protest – his muscles screamed at him as he began his walk.

Alex could see a handful of dark clouds in the sky, but they did not fully obscure the sun overhead.

It was good to see the day finally dawn, Alex thought wearily. The sun was well and truly up by the time he was standing in front of the door to the apartment.

_113, _Alex read the brass number. Throwing caution to the wind, he inserted the key and twisted it, entering the room. If MI6 was waiting for him on the other side of that door, no amount of dawdling or hesitation was going to help him escape.

He was just going to have to accept that if this was a trap, he was done for. As asinine as that thought was, Alex knew he didn't have the strength to fight.

"I'm not armed," he called as he pushed the door open.

It fell open, but there was no one waiting on the other side.

Alex closed the door for him and went through the flat. There were three rooms, the one he had stepped into, which was divided between a kitchen and living room of sorts, a bedroom, and a bathroom with a shower.

Alex checked the cupboards cautiously, and found them blessedly filled with food. Sure, it was either canned or dried, meant to last, but it was food. It wasn't gourmet, but Alex was almost willing to eat anything. There was even Red Bull in the fridge. The shower had shampoo and soap, and the bed was soft.

Alex was not surprised when he opened the dresser drawers and found men and women's clothes, stacked neatly, smelling faintly of laundry detergent still. Nor was he shocked to find the hair dye under the bathroom sink, or the cache of guns and ammunition in one of the kitchen cupboards,

He _was _a little amused to find the copious collection of liquor that was hoarded in the flat, and a copy of a book titled "_The Bartenders Guide." _He resolved to flip through it after he had a chance to catch up on the sleep he had missed.

_I am definitely getting Yedit flowers, _he decided, practically falling into the bed.

...

"Where is the Opium?" Yassen asked quietly. His voice carried through the entire room.

Ben and Rahim exchanged covet glances. They were the only ones who knew where the drugs were actually hidden – the rest of them (about thirty people) were here on guard duty. Ben and Rahim had drawn the short straw and got to choose the place to hide the Opium in case (as another member of Scorpia put it) company came to call.

He wondered if they would give him or Rahim up. Surely they would, if Yassen decided to start shooting? After all, their lives meant more to them than Scorpia or it's drugs, supposedly.

_They would live, but not very long, once the board members caught wind of what they had done, _Ben thought bitterly. This was an organization founded on fear, torture, and threats. At least, at MI6, people were there because they wanted to be. Because they believed in and loved England and wanted to do what they could – even if it was just a desk job – to aid their country. Even the less patriotic ones liked the job. It was decent pay, and okay hours, if you weren't a field agent. The pay was still fine, but Ben found himself hating the hours he had to pull for the job.

_And how MI6 is rapidly becoming as ruthless as Scorpia, _Ben thought uncomfortably.

Maybe once, people believed in their work, but the day he found out MI6 had contracted a teenager to work for them (the word contracted being used very loosely there, Ben thought), Ben had stopped enjoying the work.

"I will ask again, and then I will give the order for these good gentlemen to start killing you," Yassen said calmly. "Where are the drugs?"

"Rahim and Daniels are the only ones that know!" Someone – Ben didn't know who, he couldn't recognize the voice from the outburst – shouted from the mass.

Yassen smirked. "Is that so?" he asked. "I'd suggest that the two of you make yourselves known," he added as an afterthought.

"Bastard," Rahim muttered. Ben would have nodded emphatically, but that would have given the game away entirely.

"Right," Yassen said. He raised his gun, pointing it at the closest person. "Which of you are Daniels and Rahim?"

"Oh don't shoot the man," Ben finally gave in. "I'm Daniels."

Rahim cast Ben a wide-eyed look, but he shook his head imperceptibly.

"Unfortunately," Ben continued, moving towards the Russian assassin, "you're actually going to have to kill me, because while I don't give a shit about Scorpia, I'd rather die knowing I got to give you a kick way below the belt."

Yassen didn't seem to react. His gun remained raised – he didn't have to do more than tighten a single finger, and the shot echoed through the room, obscenely loud.

One of the men fell, a pool of blood blooming around his head.

Ben stared. He hadn't been ready for that, not at all. But when the assassin raise his gun a second time, he _was _ready, and he moved with the fluidity of a man who has spent most of his (now admittedly all too short) adult life learning how to move without being seen.

He moved forward, ready to use a roundhouse kick to the Russian's knee to bring him to the ground, but his blow hit air, not flesh and bone. Something – Ben presumed it was Gregorovitch – grabbed his leg and flipped him.

Ben wasn't a hulking figure, like his former team leader Wolf had been, but he wasn't exactly slight. He hit the ground hard, and found himself staring down the gun of an assassin who was very clearly stronger and faster than Ben had given him credit for.

"Where are the drugs, Daniels?" He sounded almost bored. "Make it fast."

"Go ahead and kill me then," Ben said with a mad grin. "I just wish I could be there when you tell Alex."

It had been a long shot, Ben knew. The assassin _had _helped Alex escape, and he knew that they had met in the past, but he didn't know just what their connection was like. It _seemed _like they were on amicable terms, at least, and if that saved his life, then it was a brilliant move.

But even for the pleasure of watching Yassen's face move from bored to shocked to angry, and then finally smoothing into something unsettled-looking that slightly resembled the cold and bored façade he had been wearing up until now, it was worth it.

So bloody worth it, Ben thought. And then he saw the murder in the assassin's eyes, and realized he had made a very stupid mistake.

"If you are among those responsible for Alex becoming what he is, I believe you and I need to have a longer, more drawn out, and slightly more _painful_ conversation," Yassen said, too quietly for anyone but Ben to hear him.

"Say's the _assassin_ who killed his uncle and started this whole business," Ben snarled back, unthinkingly lowering his voice as the assassin had. Was he _really _arguing with a Russian assassin over _Cub? _Had the world finally gone mad? "I've read his file, _Gregorovitch. _Or rather, I've read at least enough to know that you never did him any favors by dropping into his life. As I recall, _you _sent him to Scorpia, and then got shot in the fucking heart, and it was because of _you _that Alex's heart gave out in Gaza," Ben growled. "_I, _meanwhile, was giving up my blood to keep him alive."

Yassen flinched – actually flinched.

"You're the soldier," he said finally, still speaking so that none of the others could hear them. "The one who was his backup?"

Ben snorted. It was kind of obvious, now. He wasn't surprised the assassin had not recognized him though. He was kind of curious why the man was so obsessed with Alex though. It really didn't seem normal.

Yassen grabbed him by the arm, pulling it upright and twisting it painfully behind him.

"Right," he said, speaking at a normal pitch once again. "You're going to show me where exactly you mean, right now. Let's go."

Ben was marched out of the room.

"What the hell?" he muttered.

"I'm saving your life," Yassen cautioned. "But on a condition. Keep Alex out of the field, at any cost. I've already made my promise to him that if I come across him playing this game again before he's old enough, I'm going to cause him permanent body harm, but I doubt it will dissuade him. Perhaps reason will work as well as threats, hm?"

Ben was shocked into silence.

"Is that the highest number of words you've ever placed into a sentence?" he asked. The Russian had never really struck him as the chatty type.

"Make your escape," Yassen said. The bored, cool tone was back, and Ben knew he had pushed it an inch too far. He decided to give it one more go, just for the hell of it.

"What about the others?" he asked.

"Be grateful you're not among them," Yassen said frostily, and threw Ben to the floor. By the time he had stood up, the assassin was gone.

He took the Russian's advice and ran for his life. He was going home to London, Scorpia and MI6 bedamned. He was going to go visit his sister and tell her he loved her, and then he was going to go grovel to whoever he had to in order to get his old job back.

_Bloody hell, I miss that crappy SAS food, _Ben thought, breaking out into the Afghani sun.

_And Alex? _He asked himself guiltily.

_I'll find him and get him to see sense, before the groveling, but after I see Jenna, _he decided firmly. _That is, if MI6 hasn't gotten him into any more trouble. At the very least, I could try reporting Blunt for what he's done, see if I can't get MI6 to back off without forcing Alex to have to fight that fight. He's just a kid. A damn talented kid, but a kid, still._

...

**A/N So, as I think I've told you, I've started learning Arabic. I hate it with a passion to rival the fiery furnaces of hell. Why, do you ask? Because Arabic verbs are disturbingly similar to Hebrew verbs, except entirely different. Plus, if any of you know Hebrew, words can be assigned 'male' or 'female' values, depending on how the word is ended. It's the same for Arabic – except it goes at the beginning.**

**If you think of Hebrew as being totally backwards from English (in terms of direct translation, it is – adjectives follow, rather than proceed, words), Arabic is a halfway backwards version of Hebrew – with the added fun of totally unfamiliar sounds sliced in. **

**As always, I am yours faithfully,**

~InK


	12. Safe And Unsound

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Safe And Unsound

**So I know it's been a while, but I've been totally swamped, and this is the first chance I've have to take a break in a long time. **

**You know what would be really fantastic? If everyone who has this story on alert reviewed for this chapter. =)**

**Am I hoping for too much?**

***Crickets***

**Anyway, I love Yedit's safehouse. It's quite nifty. What say the lot of you?**

**Psst: I just finished watching the sequel to A Very Potter Musical. These guys are full of win. If you haven't seen it, do so!**

**...**

It was dark when Alex woke. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was, and then it all came crashing back to him - his midnight flight from Philadelphia to Boston, the safe house...

Alex' hand throbbed painfully, a reminder to him of how much abuse it had taken in the last few days.

Groaning, Alex pulled himself off the soft bed. He hadn't even managed to make it under the covers. He decided that his first order of the day was going to be a shower and then – as his stomach grumbled, reminding him that it had been far too long since his last meal – food.

Stepping into the bathroom, Alex examined his hand, and then wished he hadn't. The colors that decorated his skin ran the range from red to dark purple, and was bruised and mangled. He flexed his fingers and winced again – the movement was really painful.

Knowing that he needed a shower rather badly, and it would be best to care for his hand once the dressings actually had time to sit, he stepped into the shower.

It was heaven. Alex washed away the blood and grime that felt like it had ingrained itself under his skin over the last few days. It felt amazing to get properly clean again.

When he was done, he rummaged through the bathroom, and found gauze and Antiseptic. Using his uninjured left hand, he thoroughly cleaned out the cuts on his hand and wrapped it. He was worried about infection, knowing that the raw cuts had spent quite a bit of time in the Delaware (Alex didn't even want to contemplate the bacteria that were sitting in the water), but he knew that if he kept care of the hand, and didn't do anything else too damaging to it, his hand would heal alright.

It was 10:15 when Alex stepped out of the bathroom, according to the digital readout on the microwave. Alex was shocked by how long he had slept. He had dressed in some of the clothing from the bedroom, and he grateful for the change. Feeling much more human than he could possibly remember feeling in the last few days, he heated up one of the frozen dinners he had found in the freezer (he didn't know what was in it, but he really couldn't care less).

While he waited for it to beep, Alex explored the kitchen. He found a wad of cash taped under the sink. Counting it out, he found more than five hundred dollars there, in different bills, none of which was larger than a twenty.

On a whim, he checked the rest of the apartment. He found similar caches of money – Francs, Euros, Pounds (European, Egyptian, and others he couldn't place), East Caribbean Dollars, Rupees, Yen, Dinars, even (from what he could guess from the writing) Israeli Shequels. There were others he could very vaguely recognize from the writing on the bills and coins. Then there were currencies he couldn't even recognize, in coins and bills, all hidden in rolls or boxes throughout the flat.

Alex didn't need to know how many pounds there were to a Venezuelan Bolivar to know that what he was looking at was a small fortune in international funds.

It was his first practical understanding of Yedit's comment about having backup. There was food, weapons, money, clothing, and anything he might want to conceal his appearance in this flat. Alex also strongly suspected that if he looked hard enough, he might even find the materials he would need to create or alter a passport, or other important official documents.

The few days he had spent on the run had told him how inadequately prepared he was to vanish from plain sight. It was a dismal and sobering reminder of his youth, of his inexperience. He didn't hear the microwave beep, but he remembered the food when the smell of Indian cooking filled his nose, and his stomach grumbled again.

Alex crossed the kitchen and pulled out the food. It was Chana Masala – curried garbanzo beans – and some kind of green rice that looked funky but he was perfectly sure was alright and far too hungry to question. He practically inhaled the food, despite the fact that the fork felt awkward in his left hand, but he was still starving when it was done. He put another frozen dinner in the microwave, trying to figure out when the last time he had eaten had been.

While the microwave worked, Alex kept exploring. He found a drawer full of cell phones. Alex picked one of them up and turned it on – it was fully charged. Wow, there was something.

It was obvious that someone had kept the technology in this flat up to date, Alex realized, when he found the laptop computer hidden in the bookshelf. He didn't turn the computer on, but he was impressed that it was here.

It was also obvious that a great deal of money had gone into this flat. Had Yedit designed this out of pocket with her partner, or had Mossad paid for the well – equipped safehouse?

Alex remembered Yedit telling him that Mossad had no idea that this place existed. That made it all the more impressive then, he decided, staring at the stack of bills. If they had the same value as the American Dollars, it was around fifty thousand dollars he was looking at. It was just over 32,000 pounds, but it was still impressive.

The microwave beeped again, and this time, when Alex ate (the food was potatoes and chicken this time), he forced himself to slow down, knowing that eating at top speed would just end up making him sick.

Alex wondered what his next step should be. He was supposed to meet up with Jack in D.C sometime within the next week and a half. He had time to stay here and lay low, if the flat remained undiscovered. He could wait until MI6 and the CIA gave up the search for him as a bad job and went home.

All he needed was time to _think_, to try and figure out what he wanted.

He couldn't go back to MI6, not now, he knew. He wouldn't. It was ludicrous – he was not a child, by any stretch, but was it too much to ask, to give him a year to pretend that that was the case? To finish his schooling, and move into the adult world? Was it too much to ask to want just some normalcy back?

Alex no longer allowed himself to pretend that spying wasn't in his blood. It was, and he knew that it was in his fate, too. But he would put off that fate as long as could, because there was more to life than being chased across the globe, shot at, and threatened. There was more to life than secrets and shadows.

Alex was no child. He knew that. But he wasn't quite ready to embrace being an adult yet, and all the responsibilities that came with it.

_You could save hundreds, if not thousands of lives, _a cruel voice hissed. How selfish it was for him to ask to keep his childhood, while thousands of others were having their childhoods forcibly ripped away from them.

He had the tools that would allow him to save lives.

Could he ignore that, ignore his talents, and watch those that he could save suffer?

Alex didn't have an answer to that question.

...

"_Good news, Ian!" That hateful voice made Ian cringe, even in the darkness imposed by the blindfold around his face._

"_Your nephew is quite a spectacular survivor," Dr. Three said, and Ian could bloody _hear _the smirk in his words. _

"_What have you done?" Ian demanded. He was suspended by his hands in a cool, concrete room (strung up like a piece of meat, Ian had thought in a desperate panic when he had first woken up), and there was blood dripping down his body, draining from his multiple wounds, but if this _bastard _had hurt Alex..._

"_Nothing he won't survive," Three said cruelly. "Of course, he will probably be in hospital for some time still, what with the bullet in his heart."_

_Ian was struck numb. He was beyond rage, beyond despair. And of course, Three had known that this news would cut him deeper than any knife, deeper than any physical pain could possibly reach. _

Alex.

_He didn't hear Three leave. But it hadn't been the first or the last time that Dr. Three, or Zeljan Kurst, or even, on occasion, Levi Kroll, visited him and told him what was happening to Alex._

"_Alex has managed to involve himself with the Snakehead smugglers," Kurst had taunted him, tearing at his flesh with a razor. "And do you know what the best part is? Three caught him sneaking around. And I think the board is planning to approve his request!"_

"_What request?" Ian asked dully. He knew he was playing Kursts' game, but he didn't care. _

"_Three thinks we can get back some of the money we have lost because of the brat's meddling in our affairs," Kurst said, and Ian smiled smugly. He had heard about Alex's triumph over Scorpia. He would survive this, surely? Kurst noticed the smile._

"_I wouldn't think you would find the idea of ripping your nephew apart to sell his organs that entertaining, Rider," he said vindictively, and all of the victory and hope Ian had allowed to grow, just for a second, in his heart, vanished._

"_Leave him alone!" he protested, but the words were weak and useless. There was no hope for it. _

_Between these sessions, he would bleed and scream, the physical pain having passed beyond endurance long ago. _

"_MI6 has abandoned you, and your nephew," the words were bile, but after a year, as time began to stretch out into eternity, Ian began to believe them._

_And every time he heard about Alex, every time Kurst described his bruises and burns, his injuries and his missions in graphic, excruciating detail, he would die just a little bit more._

_He remembered, with a certain exquisite clarity, the day Kurst had first given him the drugs._

"_Dr. Three and I were working on this when he was killed by your nephew," Kurst said, his voice short with impatience. Ian had gotten very good at reading the emotion in voices, robbed of his sight for every single moment of the day. That short preamble was all the warning Ian got before he felt the prick of a needle._

_It was a glorious, warm sensation that flooded through him, erasing the pain. It was divine release from his imprisonment._

_He didn't know how long Kurst kept injecting him with the drugs – it could have been days or years, Ian could no longer keep track of time – but he did remember when they stopped._

_If the drugs had been release, this was cruel imprisonment, worse than anything he had ever endured. He shook uncontrollably, curled into a small ball into the corner of his cell._

_When Kurst came again, he begged. He screamed and cried, and begged some more, offering anything – anything in the world – for another dose._

"_Is that so," Kurst had said quietly, and given him another of the blessed shots._

...

Detective Donald Walsh had investigated more kidnappings than he had ever cared to keep track of in his fifteen years working for the D.C Metro.

But this was very different. This wasn't a crime of opportunity, nor was it one of petty revenge. Jack Starbright had been kidnapped, alright, but this had been a professional job.

This had something to do with the stony-eyed spy MI6 had turned Alex into. Walsh would have bet almost anything that he was right.

_Was it MI6?_ That horrible thought occurred to him as morning began to dawn, and the day began. It stayed with him through the afternoon, while he filed reports, interviewed the other patrons of the restaurant, and filed more reports. Would they have kidnapped Jack, just to get Alex back?

Walsh remembered getting that call from Kevin Davis, at the CIA, telling him to make sure that the teenager didn't go anywhere. Jack had said that the CIA had used Alex at one point.

Yeah, he could believe that MI6, or even the CIA might pull something like this off. But something was wrong about that. The search for the blonde teenage spy had not stopped. Surely, if MI6 or the CIA knew that they held the right card to end this game, they would have called off the search?

Unless they were trying to make sure Alex didn't get suspicious. He would know that MI6 wouldn't stop looking for him. He was too valuable, too good at what he did, not to, at least according to the estimation he had heard from Jack. The boy was a weapon, and MI6 was not going to share.

Then again, Alex was a spy. There must be plenty of people he had pissed off. But Jack hadn't known everything, and Walsh knew better than to guess she really had given him ad Sonya _everything _she knew anyway.

Walsh had filed the report on Jack's kidnapping, though he felt guilty for leaving certain aspects of that form blank. He had even been questioned by one of his colleagues, asking him if he knew the woman who had been kidnapped. Walsh admitted that yes, he had taken her there, and yes, he had known her, but he couldn't imagine any reason that anyone would want to kidnap her.

The officer took the lie at face value, though the words felt like poison on Walsh's lips. He knew more than he was telling, and perhaps what he did know might save Jack.

But it also might put her and Alex in more danger. So he kept quiet, and shut himself in his office.

By the time evening rolled around, the precinct had made absolutely no progress in determining the identity of the kidnappers, and Walsh was feeling decidedly dejected.

If someone was going to use Jack to blackmail Alex, Walsh figured the teenage spy might be able to do better than him and his men. He just hoped that whatever Alex decided to do, that it worked.

...

Alex was wandering around the flat again, already restless. There was one bookshelf in the whole apartment, and every book on there was all either work-related (as in emergency first aid, or gun use. One book, which he shivered to see, was on torture techniques, and he put it back as soon as he saw the title), or was in another language.

He had been amused to find make-up supplies in the bathroom cabinet, the one indication that a woman might ever use this flat (that and the black high heels he couldn't picture the Israeli assassin in, no matter how hard he tried).

He was in the kitchen when he heard a phone ringing. For a second, he didn't understand where it was coming from, but he remembered the cell he had turned on, and ran back to the bedroom.

"Hello?" He asked cautiously. If it was anyone he recognized on the other end, he would immediately turn off the phone and smash it. He didn't know how long it took to get a GPS trace on a phone call, but he wasn't going to find out.

"Alex!"

The voice was frantic, terrified, and utterly, horribly familiar, but not in the way he had been expecting.

"Jack," Alex said. "Where are you? What's happened? Are you okay?"

"Hello Mister Rider."

That voice was deeper, and definitely masculine. And it too was familiar. Alex felt his stomach roll.

"What have you done with Jack?" He demanded. "If she's hurt, I swear I'm going to-"

"No need for threats, Mister Rider," Zeljan Kurst said casually. Alex swallowed.

"Fine," he said. He sounded childish and petulant even to his own words, but he didn't care. "I've seen enough action films to know how this works. We meet, you let Jack go, and you get me instead, yeah?"

His voice was bitter, but there was nothing else for it. He wasn't going to leave Jack with these bloody... _sadists _one second longer than he had to. The woman had brought him up, taken him in without hesitation or question, and even adopted him. There was no question now that he would give himself up for her.

"That is the general principle, Mr. Rider," Kurst sounded amused. "Within the two hours, someone is going to drop off an address at your doorstep. You will meet me there at one in the morning. Do not contact anyone, at all, and come alone."

"Yeah, I figured," Alex muttered.

"We will be watching," Kurst said. Alex swallowed, but he shut the phone, unable to listen to that horrible voice any longer.

How was this happening? It was insane! Alex felt like screaming. This was so wrong. He and Jack were supposed to be safe in D.C by now, getting ready for the start of a new school year, finding a job for Jack, and meeting up with Jack's family.

Instead, here they were. How could everything have gone so thoroughly wrong? How had it come to this?

"Bloody fuck!" He snarled, throwing the phone against the opposite wall. It bounced away, probably mostly unharmed, and Alex fought the urge to scream with frustration.

Giving himself up to Scorpia – it was tantamount to suicide. Or worse still, they'd probably torture him just to prove a point before they killed him.

_It's Jack, _Alex said sensibly, to the part of his mind that cowered in fear from what he was about to do. _I have no qualms dying for her. It's better than dying for bloody MI6_

The problem was that it was very unlikely that Scorpia was going to follow through with their deal. More likely was that they would kill or capture him, and then shoot his guardian. Or threaten her until he joined them.

_Jack. _

Alex had never wanted her involved in this madness, this lunacy that was his life. Jack had always been safe before, and he hoped he could keep her safe now. Scorpia could mess with him all they wanted. But this was seriously low.

Alex went back into the bedroom, and opened the cabinet next to the dresser. It was filled with guns and rifles, with boxes on the bottom filled with ammunition. Alex's eyes hardened as he took in the weapons, and then he started picking them out one by one.

He would meet Scorpia alright. And Jack was going to walk away from that encounter.

Whether or not Alex himself did, however, remained to be seen.

...

Ben was supremely glad to find himself on British soil once again. He had contacted his employers once he had gotten away from Scorpia, and they had placed his documents so that he could return home.

He was also nervous – he didn't know what kind of reception was awaiting him. Was he going to be told off for leaving his position, or would he be congratulated for managing to escape?

_Probably both, _Ben thought uneasily, standing outside the Royal and General. He had been ordered to report to headquarters as soon as he had finished writing up his formal report, and so here he was. He had taken half an hour at home to speedily type up his report for his superiors and call his sister. Any trepidation he was feeling at having to report to this building was overwhelmed by his happiness to finally be back home.

Ben pushed open the doors, dreading what was waiting for him inside.

Up the elevator, down a richly carpeted hallway, and through the dark paneled and wooden doorway of Mrs. Jones' office, and Ben was standing in front of his superior.

"Mr. Daniels, please take a seat," were the first words out of said superiors' mouth. Ben watched the woman closely. She seemed shaken, not quite herself. The hands that went for another colorfully wrapped peppermint were slightly unsteady, as if the woman was shaking.

"I only just received your report," Mrs. Jones said, indicating one of the folders on her desk. "Quite an interesting few weeks you've had, it seems."

"Yes ma'am," Ben said, not sure what she was getting at.

"I do appreciate your collection of intelligence at Scorpia," Mrs. Jones added. Ben was slightly alarmed now – what the hell was going on, and why did his boss look like she had come entirely unhinged?

"Thank you," he said carefully.

"You will need to have your mandatory session with Dr. Parks," Mrs. Jones said.

_Looks like you need it more than I do, _Ben thought. He came uncomfortably close to voicing his thoughts aloud, but he managed a curt nod without any kind of comments. He really didn't dislike MI6's psychologist, Dr. Parks, but the man was a bit of a bore. For someone who spent all his time hearing about top-secret missions, Dr. Parks was an incredibly unremarkable man. He was nice, but not overly so, almost introverted. There was none of the stoniness of Blunt, or the fire of the younger agents in the guy. His sheer normality made him a pariah among men and women who eschewed everything having to do with the concept.

"Meanwhile, I am also aware of your application to be transferred back to the SAS," Mrs. Jones said. "You'll have some leave time before that can be processed, but I wanted to assure you that we will not hold up the records on our end."

Ben looked up, surprised. _That _hadn't been what he was expecting at all.

"Ma'am?" he asked.

"You don't enjoy your work for MI6." It was a statement, not a question.

"Not much anymore," Ben said.

"It is an unfortunate fact of working in intelligence, Mr. Daniels, that the majority of people you encounter on a casual basis will be plain barking mad."

"With all due respect, that is one of the reasons I made the request for a transfer," Ben put in as gently as he could. "I'd prefer it if my colleagues weren't, as you put it 'plain barkig mad.'"He could have sworn he saw the ghost of a grin spread across his superiors' mouth. But that couldn't be, he told himself. It was a trick of the light, or of his exhausted and battered mind.

"That's not something that can be helped here," Mrs. Jones sighed. "We're all rather mad, I'm afraid. Working for MI6 will do that to a person."

Ben stood, shaking Mrs. Jones' hand for what he hoped would be the very last time.

"Good luck Mr. Daniels," Mrs. Jones said formally. He heard the sincerity there. Perhaps Mrs. Jones wasn't quite as icy as her boss? It was an interesting thought.

But all Ben really wanted to do was get the hell out of this building. Mrs. Jones' words were echoing in his head, reminding him of the Cheshire Cats' line in _Alice In Wonderland: _We're all mad here...

He wanted to get out before the madness went viral and became contagious.

...

Ian Rider was ready to destroy MI6.

He had amassed a small army of his own, to wage his private war on the British Secret Intelligence Services, and he was ready to deploy at any moment.

First, he would take down MI6, and then Scorpia.

He was ready.

But he wasn't calling his troops to arms, and he wasn't leading the charge to battle. He wasn't arranging for the shipment of his missiles to be delivered to London in secrecy. He wasn't making sure his massive stores of weapons were being safely transported, and he wasn't checking that his deputies were properly assembling the electronic equipment at their end of the line, an entire world away.

He was sitting in an empty hotel room, the light growing steadily dimmer. A grouping of glass bottles surrounded him, testifying to the fact that he was very drunk at the moment.

Ian Rider was trying to drown the look of disgust that his nephew had given him. There was a reason he should be ashamed of using drugs, but he couldn't quite place that reason. It frustrated him to no end, this being unable to place what exactly it was about his condition that bothered him.

The face of his teenage nephew sometimes wavered, to be replaced by that of his friend, Jack. Of course, it had been too long since he had seen her last, and objective observation of his mental image of Jack's sneer would show that her hair was just a few shades brighter, her eyes marginally wider, a very romantic light coloring her eyes.

Ian missed Jack and Alex. His family.

He took another long swig of alcohol.

"Fuck," he muttered, the word tripping over itself on Ian's inebriated tongue.

"Bloody fuck," he added for good measure.

_Why _was it that he was so angry about the drugs? It was bothering him so...

"_You want to destroy MI6 and Scorpia."_

"_No, please god – "_

"_MI6 destroyed your family, and for that they'll pay," the voice whispered, hissing poisonous lies in his ear._

Ian started, staring around the dark flat as though he was expecting his memories to come alive.

"_You will organize a shipment of ballistic missiles..."_

Ian heard the plans he had made, laid out in a voice that was not his own. How could that be? They were his plans, after all. He had spoken to almost no one regarding large segments of his operation, and he was the only one who knew everything about his plans.

Someone had given him these ideas.

That inspiration hit Ian like a mallet. His entire revenge was a fabrication, a manufactured product, to serve as a tool for someone else.

His head throbbed painfully, and Ian threw the now empty bottle of alcohol at the wall, where it shattered explosively, sending fragments of brown glass everywhere.

"Bloody fuck," he repeated, and Alex was glaring at him again, sneering from that corner of the room just by the doorway.

"Go away," he pleased. Maybe if he just ignored it, the apparition would leave?

"Drugs, Ian?" Alex's face was contorted in disgust.

"Shut up!" Ian roared, throwing one of the full bottles of liquor at the place where Alex was standing.

...

Yassen Gregorovitch polished the trigger on his gun, humming a quiet tune. Dispatching with the entire crew had been messy, but necessary. He needed to cripple Scorpia before they (or Ian) could take action. If he could get them to trip up in the execution of their plan, he would win.

Ian Rider. That was the wild card in the entire equation. Scorpia depended upon his participation in the whole thing. Of course, at this late date, killing him would solve nothing.

_Well, it would make me happier, _the Russian amended grumpily, examining the barrel of his Gratch more closely.

Scorpia could just replace Ian by now. However, he was the only person who was not a member of Scorpia who knew what they were planning.

Yassen just didn't know what kind of shape he would be in to help the rebel group. He already hated Yassen, and the Russian assassin did not flatter himself that any hand of friendship he extended would be welcomed.

However, there was a way of making sure that Ian tripped up, on his own, and messed up Scorpia's plans. They might kill the English spy, but that was no skin off of Yassen's back. The obligation he held to ensure that John Rider's progeny never became a part of MI6 did not prohibit him from killing Ian, and he had no problem letting him go to his death.

In many ways, it would be a far kinder end for the patriot, rather than to die in prison for a crime he couldn't even understand having committed.

"Gregorovitch, this is too rich!" Yassen's face immediately went blank when he heard Levi Kroll enter the room.

"What is?" Yassen asked, his voice neutral.

"Kurst thinks that his precious ace isn't going to be able to perform," Kroll snorted. "He had that housekeeper of his kidnapped, so that he could force the boy to show his hand."

"He's backed into a corner," Yassen observed, not letting any change in his body language betray him. "How, pray, did you find this out?"

Kroll held up a collar, smiling broadly.

"Got a cat in with a microphone attached to her collar," the Israeli said.

"Do you propose we do anything about this – kidnapping?" Yassen asked.

"Lets watch it play out," Kroll said gleefully. "I have a feeling that both Riders have something rather spectacular planned out for us. Let's give them their chance to make a move."

"And if they don't?" The Australian had joined them, and was watching Yassen's hands work the delicate machienery of the handgun, reassembling it with an ease that could only be born of familiarity.

"We destroy them," Yassen said quietly, holding up the Gratch so that he could inspect the assembled piece, and then he fired.


	13. Sound and Fury

Operation; Bury Your Dead – Sound and Fury

**Hey guys! I'm taking a break from a massive set of homework and college apps to write this. I'm really tired, as also very sick, so please excuse any incoherency.**

**Anyway... I've noticed that all my support from all but a few lovely reviewers has gone... Come on guys, what's up? I was getting almost six reviews a chapter up until the last one. Where's the love? **

**Am I being greedy and unreasonable? Perhaps. But seriously, make yourselves known! If nothing else, it will probably get you the next chapter faster. Which you do want, right? Right?**

Oh - in honor of Yom Kippur, I would like to explain to all of you why everyone in the Jewish world is fasting today. Basically, Rosh Hashonnah, the Jewish New Year, was ten days ago. During the ten days between then and now, we're supposed to be doing repentance, asking for forgiveness if we have broken promises or wronged anyone in any way. Today is the time in which our cases are judged, and whether we're found to have been righteous or not in the past year. We fast and wear white in order to symbolize purity and divinity.

Most Jews will also be in temple all day today. I am neither fasting nor going to temple, since I'm sick, and since I'm atheistic and don't acknowledge the right of a god to judge my sins, but I felt the need to share.

**To my Jewish readers, I wish you a meaningful fast. To the rest of you, have a great weekend!**

...

"_...Out, out, brief candle!_

_Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player_

_That struts and frets his hour upon the stage_

_And then is heard no more: it is a tale_

_Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,_

_Signifying nothing."_

_~Macbeth_

_..._

_The warehouse was long abandoned, surrounded by a district of abandoned warehouses. It was here that Scorpia had sent Alex. Looking around, Alex realized that he couldn't have chosen a better field of battle himself if he were working for the terrorist organization. _

_There was little ground for cover outside, and ample patches of shadow in which they could be (and no doubt were) hiding. The areas was secluded – if shots did need to be fired, they wouldn't attract much attention (and if they did attract attention, it wasn't going to be the kind that was going to actually help out). _

_Scorpia held the home field, had the advantage the superior numbers and firepower. Alex brushed the metal of the 9mm at his waistband, slightly warm from the contact with his body. He didn't draw it yet, but its weight was comforting, it's presence a relief. He was woefully unprepared for an engagement like this. Even with a few tricks up his sleeve, he doubted he would make it out under his own power. Or even alive._

_His footsteps echoed too loudly through the semi-darkness around him. _

"_So good to see you, Alex," Kurst's cordial tone drawled, cutting through the echoes. It was coming from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing off the walls like Alex's footsteps. He stopped short, drew his gun._

"_Now now, we wouldn't want your dear friend to suffer for your imprudence," Kurst said, and that mocking, ridiculously condescending tone surrounded Alex in the dark and made him want to hit something. He heard a scream – Jack, Alex knew – and then the controlled explosion of gunfire. A single shot. There was silence._

_And somehow, there was light everywhere, and it was blinding him, blinding him from everything in the world except Jack, and her body, laying prone on the grey concrete. Her blood, despite the light, was black against the stone. And he could hear the mocking laugh of Dr. Grief, multiplied by his clones, and he was surrounded by it. But nothing mattered except Jacks body –her dead body – _

The first thing Alex was really aware of was the taste of vomit. He wiped his mouth slowly, trying to grasp the fact that he was awake – that nothing in the dream was real.

_It wasn't real, _Alex repeated to himself, standing. He had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for whatever message Scorpia intended to send him. Alex stretched, and looked down at the mess of sick on the carpet. It looked, in the dim light coming from the kitchen, like blood. He shuddered at the reminder of the dream, and moved away. He glanced at the clock, and started when he realized it wasn't very far past eleven. He had only been asleep for maybe half an hour.

More out of habit, and to give himself something to do, Alex went into the bathroom to find something to clean up the signs of his nightmare. He found a brush and carpet cleaning solution under the sink, and brought it back out into the main room of the flat.

Alex was about to open the bottle when he saw the paper taped to its side.

Curious, Alex pulled the note away. He wondered if it had been left recently – more recently than the last time Yedit had been here, and if he should really be prying into her private life.

Curiosity overcame prudence, however, and Alex unfolded the note. It was written in French, but that was hardly an obstacle for Alex. It was addressed to Yedit.

_Yedit – _

_If you do not consent to speak to me, you might at least speak to someone else – anyone else, for the love of god - regarding your nightmares. If you have one while on a mission, it will mean your death, and that of anyone working with you. It is a weakness you cannot afford. And don't even think of lying to me and pretending that you don't have nightmares. Don't forget that two people share this flat, and I can see stains on the carpet._

_I don't know what the hell is going on. Your father thinks that you hacked his computer using my laptop. Yedit, what is happening? You are not a traitor. I know you, and I am certain of it. But running will not prove your innocence._

_Please, as your partner, talk to me? Come home, Yedit. _

_- Dani._

Alex read the note through twice. At first, he really didn't know what to make of the discovery. Dani must have left it for Yedit when she ran, hoping she would find it. That explained a lot. Dani must have thought Yedit was ignoring his belief in her innocence when she never responded to the note. And yet, from all appearances, Yedit had never found it.

Alex carefully folded the note and taped it back to the side. He cleaned up the signs of his nightmare, and returned the bottle and brush to the bathroom.

After his nightmare, Alex found himself unable to sit still. He paced the flat like a caged lion, periodically checking the peephole to ensure that nothing had been left on his doorstep.

The doorbell rang at a quarter to midnight on the dot. Alex had been sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, his eyes firmly fixed on the clock, watching the seconds tick by. He was too hyped up and jumpy to sleep, too frightened that he might fall asleep and have another nightmare.

So he waited, eyes fixed on the regular, circular movements of the clock hands.

The sound of the doorbell was welcome relief, but still, Alex made no move to stand. He had no wish to encounter any agent Scorpia might have sent with their missive. Though to be honest, Alex didn't doubt that any agent the terrorist organization could send was capable of disappearing in the short span between him getting up and opening the door, even if he had run the distance.

After a minute, he stood, no longer able to justify remaining still, and walked to the door. He felt like he was still in his dream – everything felt unreal, and yet sharp and distinct. It had to be a dream. It had to be. Any minute now, he would wake up and find himself with Jack, to discover that none of this had ever happened. Or maybe he was dead. Maybe he _had _died in Gaza when his heart gave out, and now he was just running through some perverse and horrifying hell, one that even Damian Cray might be proud of.

But when Alex opened the door, the sharp cold of early morning stung his face, and an inoffensive white envelope lay on his doorstep. Even though there was no name or address, Alex knew it was for him.

He bent to pick it up, his eyes always on the world outside. He grabbed the envelope and retreated inside.

There was only one sheet of paper in the envelope. It had an address that Alex looked up on the laptop. It was in the warehouse district. Alex shuddered, remembering his dream again.

But he knew there was no use being scared now. He would meet Scorpia and save Jack. Beyond that, he didn't really know what his plans were. He was really just crossing his fingers and hoping for the best.

Then again, wasn't he always?

...

_Ian needed to get home. He had to get back to London, as fast as he could. He knew he had been recognized – the Russian bastard had to have known who he was. He had seen it in the assassin's eyes- the glimmer of surprise and recognition._

_Gregorovitch knew he was a spy. He had to move fast. Ian knew that Gregorovitch and John had known each other, a long time ago, back when John had been a double agent, and the Russian bastard no more than a fledgling assassin. Ian also had his suspicions that it had been Gregorovitch to kill his brother, but so far, there was little he had in the way of proof for that claim._

_He had to get back home. He would take Alex, and maybe even Jack too, and go into hiding. They would take a holiday, in France, or Spain, or Germany. Somewhere where he could keep them out of Gregorovitchs' way long enough for MI6 to arrange a deal to keep them safe._

_The bullets that sprayed the side of Ian's car took him by surprise. The spy was angry at himself for that – how many times had he heard about junior agents, who had died because of being inattentive? More times than he cared to enumerate, just now._

_The bullets had been fired by the blue car that was pulling up next to him, and Ian recognized the face that haunted plenty of his nightmares._

_The Russian bastard had caught up to him. Ian put on a burst of speed, distancing himself from the other car, and hit number one on his speed dial._

"_Royal and General, this is Agent Rider," Ian spoke calmly and firmly. "I need backup, and I'm being chased by a bloody assassin, so if you could please get somebody on that, I'd be much obliged."_

_He didn't even wait for a response, just hung up. The Royal and General had always been good about coming when he called for aid. He couldn't see why now would be any different._

_It was in trying to swerve away from the other car Ian lost control. The wheels locked, and he ran headlong into the wall of a building to his left. Ian swore as the airbag deployed, knocking him backwards and dazing him. _

_Knowing he didn't have much time, Ian reached for the gun in his glove compartment, but he was already out of luck. A shadow fell over him._

"_Don't even think about it Rider," the Russian bastard said. "Get out of the car."_

_Ian complied slowly, trying to figure out if he had any way of getting out of this. He found Gregorovitch backed by three sturdy looking henchmen, and realized that he had no chance. Four on one, with no weapon, he was doomed._

"_Turn around," the assassin ordered. "Face the car."_

_Ian did as he was told, and felt his hands being pulled behind him and locked together in handcuffs. It wasn't the first time he had been locked inside metal restraints, but he kept praying every time would be the last. Spies who got captured ended up dead._

_Ian realized that maybe this would be the last time he got captured, but only because he was going to die._

_But wait..._

_Why chain up a dead man? Ian wondered, as he felt the prick of a needle, and everything faded away._

_When Ian woke up, it was just as dark. He felt the rough cloth of a blindfold over his eyes, blocking any view he might have had. His hands were chained above him, and he could tell from the chill that someone had stripped him of his shirt. He was glad to discover that his pants were still securely fastened where they belonged though, that was one small mercy._

"_Ian Rider."_

_That wasn't a voice he knew, but Ian understood the menace there. His thought was confirmed when a blow landed heartily in his midsection._

"_Nice to meet you too," Ian breathed, trying not to show any pain. He had been trained for this, after all. He had been trained to withstand torture and interrogation, not to reveal information._

_It was unfortunate then, that what this man – Dr. Three, Ian soon learned, did not want information from him, only misery._

_And as hours stretched into days, and moved into months, he obliged, giving up little by little, until Scorpia had beaten every last bit of his soul from his body._

The grin that was gracing Ian Rider's lips right now was far from miserable, however, even as he remembered his torture.

Scorpia would pay. Bloody hell, they would pay. For torturing him, for kidnapping Alex, and then for doing the same to Jack, they would pay.

Ian wasn't even quite sure he was sober yet, but he was thinking more clearly than he had in months, possibly years. He had to act now, before withdrawal kicked in, because he knew that

But in order to do what he wanted to, he had some bridges to mend. He picked up his phone, sitting on the seat of the car next to him, and dialed with one hand, careful to keep the wheel steady with the other.

After three rings, he heard the phone being picked up, and a sharp female voice.

"Who is this?"

"Tulip, hello," Ian said conversationally.

"Ian," Mrs. Jones said. The change in her voice was immediate. "You're in a spot of trouble."

"I guessed," Ian said.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't hang up on you right now."

"I'll give you two: my boyish charms, and my dashing good looks."

"I am extremely serious, Ian," Mrs. Jones said. Ian didn't say anything to that, so his deputy director continued on. "You know about Jack, I presume."

"Yes."

"You know we can't help her. Alan would fire me if he knew I was talking to you now without trying to trace your call."

"Hang Alan Blunt," Ian muttered. "Sod was never good at his job anyway."

"Alan Blunt is the most capable director this agency has ever had."

"So the ideal here is the exploitation of children? And here I thought maybe I had just been angry with you lot because of the symptoms of a highly powerful opiate and months of torture and coercion."

"What do you want, Ian?" Mrs. Jones sounded exasperated, but there was a hint of amusement there. Just like old times.

"There are two hundred ballistic missiles trained on London at the moment," Ian said. I'll trade you their locations for a fair hearing and rehabilitation."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Rider, are you drunk?" Mrs. Jones finally asked.

"Not as think as you drunk I am," Ian muttered, and then repeated himself, getting it right. He stopped, swayed slightly in his seat in the moving car, and then continued. "Yeah, little bit, actually. I was also seeing Alex running around my apartment making fun of me for it, which is why I'm on you with the phone. On the phone with you."

He heard the exasperated sigh.

"What are the coordinates?"

Ian told her, feeling a great weight lifted from his chest. He had no problem selling out his mercenaries. Better them than the citizens of London. His head throbbed, and his vehicle swerved erratically. Ian had to remind himself that he was drunk, and suffering from withdrawal, and that he had no business behind the wheel of a car, especially if he wasn't paying attention.

"Oh, and Ian?" Mrs. Jones asked. "Be sober, when you come in."

"I just have something to do first, yeah?"

"Lord almighty, Ian, are you _driving*?"_

Ian didn't have a response to that, so he ended the call, chuckling. John had always said he had an amazing propensity for holding his liquor. Better, at least, than John himself.

"_Even Helen could drink you under the table," Ian remembered telling John once, when John had issued one such compliment._

"_Oh, she has, my dear brother," John had said with an impish grin that was so full of innuendo, both brothers burst into tears of laughter._

Remembering John only reminded Ian of his nephew. He sped up, praying he wasn't going to get pulled over.

_..._

"What reports have come in?" Alan Blunt asked his deputy, not looking up as she entered the office.

"I received an alert on a planned terrorist attack," Mrs. Jones said neutrally. "I passed the intelligence on to the right people, and they're taking care of it." After all, it would be hours before her superior learned of the nature of the threats that were neutralized, and maybe even days before he could associate them with Ian Rider. Perhaps by then she could convince her superior of the agents' innocence.

Or, at the very least, Mrs. Jones hoped that she could ensure that he gave Ian Rider a fair hearing. Her natural suspicious led her to instinctually believe that this was a trap of the most obvious kind, engineered by an agent gone rouge, but her gut told her that it was much more simple than that. She had had the drugs that Dawns had sent her analyzed, and she could guess at their use by the heads of Scorpia.

_That_ kind of coercion, thank god, her boss was above.

_For now, _John Rider whispered in her ear, and Mrs. Jones shook her head, as if by doing so, she could dislodge her former agent from her head. No such luck.

"Then we've had a successful evening," Blunt replied, still not looking up, and not seeing the agitation of his deputy. "Some traffic camera caught Alex Rider speeding in Boston. The CIA managed to figure out that he's headed for the warehouse district, by following his trail on their street feeds. They have a team ready to move in and apprehend him."

"Alan," Mrs. Jones began.

"Tulip, really," Blunt interrupted her scathingly. "The boy has a great deal to answer for, but even were that not the case, we still need to speak to him, and it is clear that given the choice, he will run away. Therefore, force will be necessary, whether he has betrayed England or not. In our business, it always pays to assume guilt before innocence. Suspicion _is _our trade after all."

_You're supposed to trust your allies, _John Rider insisted. But even Tulip knew enough to object to that. Spies shouldn't trust anyone, not even their partners or their families.

"Very well," she backed down. If Alan was actually willing to listen, then she had no doubt both Riders would be proved innocent of any willing involvement with the enemies of England.

However, she didn't like the gleam that possessed her bosses' eyes. It was too close to avarice for her to feel wholly comfortable. She wondered if he would be acting any differently if a new weapon had been stolen from the secret services. She reflected probably not. After all, to him, Alex was a weapon.

_Even to you, all of us agents are weapons, _John Rider accused. _My brother, my son, even me – everyone who works for you is a weapon to be wielded by you and Mr. Blunt._

_..._

The reality of the exchange was almost exactly as it had been in his dream. The dim lighting, the spacious warehouse. The only lights on were at the very back, illuminating the small party of people.

The same shadows outside and inside, hiding every threat imaginable. The same fear, the same consolation from the weapon he was holding on to like it was his line to life. And even the same fatalistic knowledge that he wasn't going to win, no matter what tricks he had brought with him.

Alex's steps even sounded the same. Creepy. This was unnerving in so many different ways He held onto his gun for support, trying to shake the sensation of déjà vu.

Alex was starting to get a little freaked by all the silence. He knew that it was the dark space that weren't touched by the light up ahead where enemies might lay in wait to ambush him, so he didn't pay too much attention to the party up front, until he heard a voice call out from that direction.

"Alex! Over here!"

That was Jack. Heedlessly, he ran, throwing caution and prudence to the winds, abandoning any attempt at trying to appear in control of the situation. He ran in the direction of his guardian's voice.

"Jack!" He called, but he was brought up short.

The lights at the very back of the warehouse fell on Jack, surrounded by Scorpia goons in navy blue. They were holding guns, and while the weapons weren't really aimed at him or Jack, he knew better than to tempt fate. Instead, Alex looked at his guardian, trying to ignore the armed guards.

Her hands were tied together in front of her, but despite looking frightened, she didn't seem to be hurt. Alex was glad of that. One of the goons had his hand over her mouth, silencing her.

"So good of you to come," another voice added, and Zeljan Kurst emerged from the shadows.

"Let her go," Alex said. "I'm here, you've got your trade, let Jack go."

He heard Jack protest incoherently behind the hand keeping her quiet, but he kept his eyes fixed on Kurst. If he didn't, if he keep looking at Jack, he was going to break down, and he couldn't afford that, couldn't afford imagining the horrifying sight of her blood –

"Let her go," Alex repeated, trying to force that image out of his head. He finally made eye contact with Kurst, who was smirking. The bastard.

"Perhaps I won't," he said.

"We had a deal," Alex said flatly. His hand was hovering just an inch above the handle of his gun. He could draw it and shoot in less than three seconds. If his aim was true, Kurst would be dead in four, maybe five. Would he be able to shoot Jack by then? Would his goons shoot her anyway, with her boss gone?

"Yes, we assassins set so much store in honor, and our deals," he said. Alex was tensed, ready to strike, but he saw Kurst chuckle, and realized that the man had been making fun of him, testing him.

"A deal is a deal," Kurst agreed, and gestured to his goons. They released Jack, and she ran forwards, grasping Alex in a tight hug, which was made all the more awkward by the fact that her hands were still bound together at the wrist. Alex found he couldn't care less, and was hugging her back as tightly as he could, as if he was afraid that when he let go, she would e gone forever.

_Of course she would be_, Alex thought miserably. _Only I'm the one who's leaving. _

"Alex, I'm sorry I couldn't stop them-"

"It's fine Jack," Alex said, even though he knew nothing could ever be fine. Nothing could be, when the world was this fucked up. Nothing made sense. "You're alright?"

"I'm fine," Jack assured him.

"Good," Alex said, cutting off what she started to say next, and dropped his voice as low as he could. "As soon as you're out of here, run like hell. My cars in the lot – "

"Your car?" Jack asked skeptically.

"Well, someone else's car," Alex amended. "Just go. I'll be right behind you."

"You're lying," Jack accused, not letting go. Alex didn't really want her to.

"No, I'm not," he told her. He couldn't fight back if she was still there for them to threaten. He had to get her out. And if his plan worked, he _would _be right behind her.

"I'm so glad to see you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"I know Alex," Jack said, holding him tightly.

"I'm waiting," Kurst said.

Alex disentangled himself from his guardian, wishing he didn't have to.

"Go," he told her. Jack looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn't. She sniffed slightly, looking like she was holding back tears, but she went without the fight Alex had been expecting. He was glad of that – he was only going to get one chance for this, and he didn't want her caught in a firefight.

When Jack's footsteps faded away, Kurst moved forward again.

"Quite noble of you, Alex, to give yourself up for your friend," he observed dryly.

"Why the hell am I here?" Alex asked, wanting to buy Jack time to get as far away as she could, and genuinely curious. "There seems to have been a great deal of effort expanded to get me to this point."

"Entertainment, mostly," Kurst answered. "You have no idea how boring it is to be an executive of Scorpia."

"The sarcasm is cute, but you really don't pull it off as well as I do," Alex shot back, not missing a beat. He could hear his pulse throbbing in his neck, a vital reminder that the goal here was to remain _alive._

"I'll keep that in mind," Kurst said, amused. "Now, I would be most obliged if you could follow through with your end of the deal."

"Oh yeah, did I not tell you that I decided to decline your invitation to let you guys capture and kill me?" Alex asked, as innocently as physically possible. "So sorry, how rude of me."

In a single fluid motion (one he had practiced several times earlier to make sure he got it just right), Alex drew the C-Z* 9mm from behind him.

Alex found himself facing ten armed gunmen, plus Kurst.

"Put it down Rider," Kurst said calmly. "Its not worth getting shot again."

Alex weighed his chances. One against eleven – he had survived against every odd before, but somehow, he didn't want to try his chances if he turned and ran, or just started shooting.

He hesitated. The question was whether or not he could he kill enough of them before they injured him, The answer was most likely no, and with every second, it became more and more likely that Kurst would just shoot him in the leg anyway, to simplify the situation.

So plan A, which was a stupid plan anyway, was out. Plan B... Alex was still liking his chances of survival with plan B.

Pretending to be disgusted with himself, Alex threw down the gun and kicked it away, glaring at Kurst and giving an admirable impression of a lost and defeated teenager.

_Not like I haven't done it before, _he reflected.

"Happy?" Alex demanded, and then, under his breath, added "sodding bastard," for good measure. He watched the goons carefully – he needed to time his move just right, so that they wouldn't be suspicious until the last second. He had another gun strapped to his ankle – once they were distracted, he could make his way out of here.

Before he could make any move towards setting his plan in motion, something happened that rendered most of his feeble distraction entirely unnecessary.

An explosion tore a massive hole in the side of the warehouse, blasting concrete inwards, and sending the people inside to the floor. The air erupted into sound, a mixture of shouted commands and gunfire, and Alex kept low to the ground, hoping for his chance. Someone grabbed him roughly by the arm, but he shook whoever it was off with an elbow to the face. The man cursed, Alex stood, and sent him to the ground with a kick to the groin.

There was smoke everywhere, obscuring whoever was attacking. More men in navy blue, presumably Scorpia goons, came out of the shadows, firing.

And then the lights went out.

Alex drew his gun and ran blindly, hoping that the luck of the devil guided him to some kind of exit. He heard a few explosions, but didn't see any fire, so he figured whoever these attackers were, they were using smoke grenades, or something similar.

Arcs of light were passing through the smoky darkness, cutting small beams of illumination in the warehouse, and Alex realized that Scorpia had flashlights out, and were fighting back.

Another arm grabbed him by the back of the neck– damn, how was everyone able to see except him? Alex twisted, trapping the hands against the side of his body with one arm, punching out with the other, breaking the mans nose. The top if his knuckles came in contact with hard plastic, and Alex realized that whoever was attacking was using thermal night vision goggles. That was how they could see.

Knocking the man out with a blow from the butt of his gun, Alex took the goggles, and fastened them around his own face.

The warehouse was thrown – well not into sharp clarity, but at least Alex could see. Red shapes – human bodies – moved around the screen, dodging bullets and blows. He saw several go down, and then reminded himself that he wasn't quite out of this yet.

_Who's shooting? _Alex had to wonder, edging along the wall, keeping his back covered. _And why? _

Not that he was going to complain. Plan B had been throw a smoke grenade and run like hell.

Alex saw two figures coming at him and fired. Both went down. Alex didn't stop to check if they were dead. He had the exit in sight now, but he was going to have to cross the whole room to get there.

Bracing himself, Alex plunged into the fight. A blow sent him sprawling to the ground, and Alex found himself forced to roll out of the way before he was trampled. Two heavy bodies thudded to the floor right where he had been seconds ago, but Alex didn't look back. He plunged forward. Someone struck out, hitting Alex again – that blow clipped his face, but Alex kept moving, ignoring the fact that he was going to have a magnificent black eye the next day. If he lived that long.

"_You."_

Alex found the breath squeezed out of his lungs as an arm pulled around his neck, cutting of his air. The gun was forced roughtly from his hand, and it clattered to the floor, though the sound was lost in the chaos around them. He desperately clawed at the arm, trying to break free, jabbing backwards with his elbows and feet, trying to get himself out of the hold in any way possible.

Alex recognized the voice behind him, even in the din of the fight. Kurst. Alex felt panic set in for the first time that night – true, untempered panic. He yelled, knowing the sound was as good as non-existant, but needing some release for the fear that was building hi his chest. He struggled violently, but Kurst had him around the neck with one arm, and a gun in the other hand. He slammed the gun into the side of Alex's head, and the world went fuzzy. Alex stopped struggling.

Kurst loosened the hold just enough for Alex to be able to breathe – but there was no leeway for him to be able to escape. He dragged Alex along with him. Somehow, in the fight, Alex had lost his goggles, so he was almost as good as blind – but he could see several large shapes gathered around them – Scorpia goons protecting their leader and his prey.

_Jack, _Alex thought desperately. Had she made it out? There were far more Scorpia goons here than he had planned for – had she made it clear of the fight, or had they re-captured her? That thought was all Alex needed to keep moving. If they took him, he was never going to get the chance to rescue her.

He couldn't let himself be taken.

Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be much he could do about that at the moment. Even dragging in his heels, and trying as best he could to distract his captor, he was still basically helpless.

And then he remembered plan B.

The first day of A-level Chemistry, Alex's teacher had shown the class how to make a smoke grenade. All you really needed was Potassium Nitrate, sugar, some key kitchen utensils and measuring devices, a toilet paper roll, duck tape, aluminum foil, and something to serve as a fuse. It didn't take more than half an hour to make one, not if you had done it before.

Alex hadn't been surprised to find Potassium Nitrate in the pantry of Yedit's flat. It was actually a pretty common compound, and could have been there for totally innocent uses. Like fertilizing flowers.

Trying to mask to movement as struggles, he pulled the smoke grenade out from the strap on his left leg. The lighter was hidden under the strap of his watch (Alex had considered hiding the two together, for the take of convenience, but he hadn't been quite ready to accept the risk of a smoke grenade going off on his foot). At the angle he was at, Alex doubted Kurst could see the small light from the flame he had set, especially not distracted by the firefight around them as he was. Kurst shouted something to one of his goons, which sounded like an order to shoot someone, but Alex wasn't paying attention. He had to do this before Kurst redirected his attention to the teenager in front of him.

Even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to stop Alex at that point. Alex held the fire to his makeshift fuse (a shoelace that had been shortened to the length he needed), and counted in his head.

_One, two, three._

On three, he threw the can back as it started to smoke, releasing gaseous potassium nitrate and sugar into the Scorpia executives face. Coughing in surprise and alarm, the man immediately dropped Alex.

Alex ran for it, barreling straight through the line of guards – but he hadn't been fast enough. Kurst had lung forward, cursing like a sailor, and latched on to Alex's ankle. He kicked out, but the man refused to let go. Desperately, Alex scrambled for something to grab onto – no such luck.

Kurst advanced, and a moving flashlight beam illuminated the silver of the gun in his hand, even through the smoke. Alex gulped.

What happened next was both incredibly lucky, and extremely painful.

One of the fighting men – Scorpia or their assailants, Alex didn't yet know which one it was – stepped backwards, right in the middle of Alex's gut. The man tumbled backwards, falling into Alex – and Kurst.

Alex pulled out of the man's grip for the second time, and lashed out furiously. His fist made contact, and Alex turned and pushed his way through the massive crowd. He was tuned out to the noise, to the pain that surged every time someone landed a hit on him. Twice, bullets whizzed by him, close enough to scrape his skin. The smell of potassium nitrate and gunpowder filled Alex's nose. He was moving blind and scared out of his mind, wanting to be out of this warehouse-turned-warzone. He moved his hands wildly in front of his face, trying to see more than a foot ahead of him.

One hand brushed cold concrete, and Alex pressed himself against the wall. He wished he knew where he was in relation to the rest of the building.

The sound of the fight was lessening now. Alex wondered who was winning – and who was fighting. He moved along the wall, hoping to somehow slip away. A thought occurred to him.

Ian had planned on destroying Scorpia. Maybe these were his men? Was his uncle here now, directing them? It seemed like the only logical possibility. If he had found out that Kurst was going to be here, alone except for a few scores of goons, he might have thought it was worth it to take another shot.

Another grenade went off, blinding Alex with its intensity. It send Alex to his knees. Alex tried to remember the last time he had felt this helpless. Hanging above a pit of crocodiles? Or maybe while being forced into a boxing ring in Thailand?

_Not helping, _Alex reminded himself, blinking away the spots in his vision, and trying to ground himself. He had to get out of here, and then he could mope about his missions.

_Survive tonight, get depressed later. _Alex liked that plan. It was a good plan.

The sound of metal hitting stone reminded Alex that the former stage of his plan was going to be a lot harder than it sounded. He didn't even know where to start looking for an exit route.

The gunshots were becoming less frequent as well, Alex noted, listening hard. The battle was being won. But by whom?

The lights went up as if in answer to his question.

Alex hissed in pain, and shielded his eyes. The fluorescent lights were really bright. He dropped for cover as he heard orders being shouted, and a few more gunshots being fired.

And then the gunshots were silenced as well, and someone was shouting, and this time Alex was able to make out the words.

"The rest of you can surrender now," whoever it was called. Alex noted with relief that it was decidedly _not _Kurst speaking, and with just a bit of disappointment that it wasn't Ian's familiar English drawl. Whoever it was, they were definitely American.

The man must have been close by, because when he lowered his voice to give a command to someone nearby, Alex heard it too.

"Find the boy."

Alex dared lift his head a little and expose his eyes to the light once again. Blinking away tears of irritation from the brightness, he was able to see what was going on.

The men mulling about the warehouse, handcuffing the goons in navy (who were putting down their guns, and looking about as if they expected to see their fearless leader among them. Alex, however, knew that Kurst would be long gone), were wearing black combat gear, with Kevlar vests emblazoned with three letters in white.

Alex almost groaned. The CIA.

_Bloody. Fucking. Hell_. Couldn't he catch a single break?

...

*Driving drunk is a serious issue. It's neither amusing, nor do I believe it to be. DO NOT DRIVE DRUNK. You WILL die, and you will probably kill someone else. It's not worth it. Drunken driving is portrayed for narrative and comedic purposes in this fiction. Do not attempt to operate heavy machinery (especially motor vehicles) while under the influence of drugs or alcohol, or while recovering from symptoms thereof. Got it?

*C-Z stands for Ceska Zbrojovka, which is a gun model. The 9mm, from what I can tell, had received a bit of praise as a weapon. I figured it might be fun to throw in some new gun brands, what with Yedit being a gun nut and all.

**Anyway, you know the drill. Review, or the muses will starve! Don't starve the muses! *Please?* =)**

**Yours, **

**~InK**


	14. Morning Glories

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Morning Glories

**I wasn't going to subject the lot of you to another authors note, but it seems 'popular demand' * coughtyzcough * would like to see my characters gang up on me again. Let me assure you, my dear Tyz, said characters do whatever the hell they want – **

**Alex: Help, the crazy bitch is lying! We work ridiculous hours, up at all hours of the night, never getting sick leave or pension or compensation for injury – **

**Yassen: I'm with little Alex. Lets kill her!**

**Kurst: I agree wholeheartedly. But is killing her really the way we want to go?**

**Three: Lets start with her hands!**

**Alex: Um... I'm just gonna... Actually, you know what? Yeah! Lets start with the hands!**

**Scorpia: * stares at Alex slightly stupefied ***

**Me: * edging away veeeerrrrry slowly... ***

**Kurst: AFTER HER!**

**While I run away from the horde of homicidal maniacs, enjoy this next chapter of Bury Your Dead!**

**...**

_It was drizzling lightly, the sky a gloomy grey. Not unusual weather for London, but today seemed especially dismal. _

_Jack could hardly believe it was true. Staring down at that coffin, dark wood with a union jack folded over it. The same colors as her own flag, but arranged so very differently, Jack thought dully._

_The red white and blue seemed to be the only color in the graveyard. The Morning Glories Jack and Alex had placed on top of the flag seemed faded, washed out. Both Jack and Ian had loved Morning Glories – Jack knew with a final kind of certainty that she would never be able to have them in the house again._

_They lowered the wooden box – not a coffin, Jack refused to call it a coffin, could _not _call it a coffin__ - into the ground. _

_ "Grant us this mercy, O Lord," the priest intoned. _

_Jack had found out quite by accident that Ian had grown up Catholic. He only went to church twice a year – to pray for his brother and sister-in-law on the anniversaries of their deaths. He never mentioned it to Jack or Alex._

_It wasn't a pleasant week to be around Ian. Helen had died just five days before John had. _

_It never occurred to Jack to wonder why Ian never happened to be called away during that week. Christmas, Easter, birthdays, anniversaries, parent-teacher meetings, and school events were all sacrificed to Ian's work, but this particular week had remained sacred._

_"We beseech thee, to thy servant departed, that he may no receive punishment in requital of his deeds."_

_Jack felt the sickening urge to laugh. There was nothing funny about any of this, but she just couldn't imagine Ian the _banker _who had devoted all his life to work, could possibly merit any kind of retribution in the heavens._

"Who in desire did keep thy will," the priest continued as the first shovel of dirt hit the box with a hollow thud. Jack strenuously doubted that Ian had ever done anything to keep the will of god.

_ "And as the truth faith here united him to the company of the faithful."_

_Not that there was much of a company to be found, Jack thought, a running editorial in her mind trying to force some kind of humor into this situation. Because if it was funny, then at least it would mean Ian wasn't dead, wasn't being buried in the ground like a corpse – _

_Jack felt a hand reach out for her own, and looked down to see Alex by her side. Stony faced and weary with grief, he was watching without emotion. _

_"So may thy mercy unite him above to the choirs of angels."_

_Jack absurdly wanted to grab the shovel away from the man who was burying Ian Rider, to scream and cry, and pry the lid from the coffin, to open that box and see – _

_She shook herself. What did she think? That if she opened the coffin, through her tears, she would see Ian just sit up, as if waking from a relaxing sleep to ask her what she was going on about?_

_All she would see was Ian's cold and dead body, mangled by the accident. She hadn't wanted to see it before, and she didn't want to see it now._

_ "Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen."_

_The priest closed his book and looked up._

_ But Jack was still watching the coffin, transfixed. She seemed to have lost her ability to move or even think. Her mink was blank with grief. How could this be? How could this be?_

_"Ian." The word escaped her without her even realizing it. And then she was crying, finally letting loose the tears she had held back for Alex's sake during the last few days._

_And again, "Ian." She whispered it hoarsely like a wish, a hope, a prayer. _

_"Ian."_

_And this is the end of the world._

_Alex reached his arm around his guardian, and Jack felt him shaking too. The two held each other like survivors of storm at sea, cast adrift, alone, awash in their grief._

_The last sight she had of Ian Rider was the bouquet of flowers she had lain on the box that held his corpse, faded and blue, sticking out of the dirt as if they were growing there for the first time. _

...

Alex stared. He was lying prone on the ground, looking, from the angle of the searching CIA agents, just like the Scorpia soldiers at first. He could have just been another fallen gunman. He was using the little time he had before someone glanced his way to think of a plan.

But as one of the men in CIA Kevlar came nearer and nearer, Alex was forced to acknowledge that there wasn't a plan. There wasn't going to be a by-the-skin-of-his-teeth rescue. Not this time.

It was over, and Alex had lost.

And yet Alex refused to concede the point. He watched the man checking for pulses in the dead bodies as he stepped closer and closer.

It was too soon, Alex thought desperately. Too soon! He hadn't make his decision yet, hadn't had time to come to grips with the reality of his assignment, hadn't been able to make the choice to go back or keep running-

"Rider!" the man Alex had decided was in charge called out. Except now he recognized the voice, Alex was sure of it. He didn't need to lift his head and give away his position to know that the speaker was Felix Dawns. What the hell was a mafia arms dealer doing here? Let alone working with the CIA? "Make this easier for all of us and give yourself up," Dawns called.

It hit Alex that Dawns was no mafia dealer. He was an agent. His blood suddenly ran cold. He was pretty sure he had _killed _men on that ship... Oh hell.

If those were Felix's men, he would show Alex no mercy. Alex had a reasonably good idea of what it meant to be responsible for other people (he had seen the attitude in Wolf, after all). Part of that was protecting them at any cost. And it wasn't only fear for his own well being that gripped him, either. Alex had killed before, that was true. But the people he had killed had been psychopaths, or murderers themselves, with mad plots to take over the world. This was different. He'd killed agents - people who upheld the law.

_This has to end, _Alex told himself sternly. _Man up, do as you're told, and survive like you always do. Enough games. _That part of Alex came so very close to giving itself up - to calling out and standing, allowing himself to be taken captive by an organization that would without hesitation send him to his death.

_I can't let them take me, _Alex thought, panicking. He needed time and space to make this decision, and yet time was running faster and faster, heedlessly ignoring Alex. And he had no space to clear his head, always on the run, the walls closing in as MI6 brought their net in around him. He needed to be able to make this choice on his own. And in the meantime, he knew that he could not allow himself to be dragged back to London. Maybe he would be able to give himself up, maybe not. But he needed to figure out which path he would choose.

In the end, Alex didn't reply to Dawn's request to give up. Getting out was now Alex's paramount concern. He cast around, trying to move as little as possible as he mapped out his options.

About fifteen feet to his right along the wall, there was a metal ladder, leading to a platform that criss-crossed around the top of the warehouse. It would trap him near the roof however, and they would easily be able to aim at and hit him – and Alex was sure that he'd had enough bullets in his body for a lifetime.

So that wasn't an option. He looked around.. The only door was opposite him, with the CIA standing between him and that exit. And Alex was totally unarmed. No gadgets, not even something sharp to use as a weapon.

Was there no way out?

Alex felt a spray of water on his face, and fought back a flinch. Where was the water coming from? He wondered about that, thinking there might be a leak in the pipes.. But he knew the answer almost at once, as thunder pealed overhead.

It was raining. There was a broken window right above him.

The man was standing over Alex now – and Alex could feel his heart pounding, betraying his life to the enemy (_Kha-wan, Kha-wan Kha-wan Khawankhawankhawan*) - _

Alex could see the shadow of the man leaning to check the pulse some someone just a foot away and in that second, he knew he couldn't just let them take him back. He couldn't. He wouldn't be walking out of this warehouse of his own volition, but that didn't mean he would go without a fight.

Alex kicked out with all his might, sending the man towering above him to the ground. Before he could react, Alex slammed his foot into the man's gut, grabbing his fallen gun from the floor. He grabbed the agent by the arm and hauled him up, training the agents own gun on his head.

"Shoot me, I kill him," he said. He lied like he had never lied before, smooth and cold and furious – he lied with his entire body. Because if they called his bluff... He didn't know what he would do if they did. They had to buy his act. Dawns had seen him kill before, after all, so luck was on Alex's side...

"You're just making it worse for yourself," Dawns told Alex.

"Spare me the fucking platitudes," Alex snorted, shaking his head. "MI6 was out for me before I'd done anything at all. Actually, I still haven't done anything wrong except defend myself. All I want to do is go back to school."

Alex was about to make his move, but he hesitated. Jack. He had to know what had happened to his guardian, his best friend.

"Just tell me one thing. Scorpia used my guardian to lure me here. Have you seen her?"

Alex saw Dawn's face soften for a moment as he shook his head, but the gun he held out didn't waver. Alex nodded. His path was set then. At the very least, he needed to find Jack and make sure she was okay. If Kurst had hurt her –

He would pay if he had hurt her. Bloody hell the man would pay.

Backing towards the window, Alex held the agent he had taken hostage tightly. The man had started squirming, and Alex had to act now –

Throwing the agent forwards, Alex launched himself though the window. He cut himself on shattered edges and landed painfully hard on the wet concrete outside, hearing shouts from inside, and then gunfire.

Pulling himself to his feet and resigning himself to a wet and terrible night, Alex started moving away from the warehouse, making sure to move along the wall away from the window so it wouldn't be directly behind him. No reason to present an even better target than he already did.

The bright lights of a line of vehicles stopped him in his tracks, blinding him. He couldn't see anything but the lights that were pointed straight at him. Alex faltered as more shouting filled the air. He heard the order to drop his weapon, his heart sinking. That it should come to end like this... Alex felt dismayed, angry, frantic – he was in so much trouble.

MI6 were going to collar him and send him off to some godforsaken warzone, and there would be no one to stop them. If he let them have him now, he was as good as dead.

And Jack – he had to know that Jack was safe, and he doubted he could count on MI6 to give him any real information.

This was insane – how many agents did MI6 and the CIA send to find and subdue him? He was sixteen, for the love of god! They could have used these agents to get Kurst, or better still kill him, and still have enough for several teams of backup. That they should use this kind of force to bring him in was worrying.

But even as he wondered at the show of force, Alex understood exactly what MI6 had intended to do. They were sending a message. A message that MI6 would stop at nothing to force him to do what they wanted, and had the power to do so.

He had to do something. He couldn't let them take him. What if Kurst had managed to get Jack back? He had to find her.

Alex held the gun to his own temple, and heard an immediate cease to the shouting.

"Move out of my way, or I will pull the trigger," he said. His voice carried over the now quiet street. It seemed almost as if the agents had stopped breathing. Alex himself was reasonably sure he was holding his breath.

"He's lying!" Someone called, after a momentary standoff.

"Want to test that theory?" Alex snarled. "If MI6 gets me, I'm better off dead where I stand. You want me alive? Not happening. Not today."

The words were bitter in Alex's mouth as he realized he actually wasn't lying. He might not be able to pull the trigger, but he was certain that death would be better than a lifetime of servitude to MI6. Not that he thought such a lifetime would be extremely long... Someone was speaking frantically into a phone. He wondered who would be the one to decide his fate - would it be Davis, at the CIA, or would Mrs. Jones or Alan Blunt be on the other end of the line?

Minutes of silence passed. Alex felt the cool metal of the gun at his temple. His hands were shaking, and as the adrenaline of the evening began to fade, his injuries were making themselves known. He didn't know if he could make it back to Yedit's flat – it had been a half hour drive, and he was injured... but he trusted the safe house, and it was better than wandering around on his own. Besides, it wasn't like he had any money.

Alex wondered, if everything went south, he would be able to find the courage to pull the trigger before he had the gun wrenched away. It was one thing to know that he would be better off dead if MI6 were going to take him.

But Alex really _really _didn't want to die.

"Alex?"

_Mrs. Jones. _Somehow they had her on speakerphone. Alex felt the urge to laugh hysterically. And that was the word - Alex was bordering on hysterics at the moment, inches away from totally freaking out. Was she really going to try and talk him out of killing himself, and into allowing himself to be brought back to London?

Alex figured that since she was a deputy director of a powerful intelligence agency, Mrs. Jones probably had to be proficient in hostage negotiation, and he was kind of holding himself hostage at the moment. It made sense, sort of, that it would be she to try and speak to him. He couldn't see Alan Blunt being able to say good morning to a great many people without instilling the urge to hit him within the people he was greeting.

"Alex, listen to me," the deputy director of MI6 said. "You're not in trouble, but the more you run, you're just digging a deeper and deeper hole for yourself."

"I won't work for you," Alex said. His throat was dry. "I'm done. I'm done with spying and killing and everything to do with bloody fucking MI6, so with all due respect, just sod off!"

More silence, broken only by the peal of thunder, and the roar of rain as it pounded on the ground, a dark curtain beyond the beams of light created by the CIA's lights.  
"I see."

Even more silence. It was becoming unbearable now.

"Please, consider the consequences; If you run now, I cannot defend you," Mrs. Jones implored, breaking the silence again.. Was there actual pain there? Alex seriously wondered. Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones lived in a world where everyone wore a mask. Nothing looked like what it was supposed to be. Loyal agents looked liked traitors, and traitors looked liked friends. (_And crazy bastards looked like your boss_, Alex added silently to himself).

"You will be beyond any help. If you are ever caught, you will be treated like a traitor, and there's nothing I can do. If you change your mind and turn yourself in, you will be arrested. There is no going back from this."

"I understand." Alex said. "And as I said before, sod off. I told you that two years ago, and I don't know how to make it any more clear than that. I'm not interested."

Silence again. Mrs. Jones seemed to be steeling herself for something. If Alex hadn't been holding his breath before, he definitely was now.

"Let him go."

...

Jack found the car Alex must have meant, its engine still running. Stepping into the drivers side door (it still shocked her to be in America, driving on the right side of the road, and wondered how Alex had possibly managed it), she discovered that her ward had managed to hotwire the car.

Deciding that she didn't really care to find out how he had learned how to do that, Jack put the car in gear. However, she couldn't bring herself to step on the gas.

_He'll be right behind me, _Jack reminded herself. _There's nothing I can do to help him. _

That thought hurt – that she had to leave a teenager (and Alex was no child that needed to be coddled, she knew, but he was no adult either) to fend for himself with a bunch of murderous thugs.

In the end, it was only Alex's desperation that pushed her forward. He had to have a plan, Jack knew. That didn't change the fact that leaving Alex behind was the hardest thing she had done. Bar none.

Jack remembered the phone calls that had brought her to Alex's beside, time and time again. She thought of how terrified she had been for her ward, sitting outside the hospital room where they were operating on her best friend, her brother, the man in her life she had ever loved unconditionally (except her father, and possibly Ian Rider, but those were two completely different cases), not knowing if he was going to live or die.

That night, she had sworn she would do whatever it took to stand by Alex. That she wouldn't leave just because it was hard, because she was scared. She was breaking that promise now, and she hated herself for that. She hated herself for being so utterly, freaking helpless.

Somehow, she was moving, driving through her tears. She didn't know if she was even in the right lane – and she didn't care. She wanted to be able to be doing something – anything – to help Alex.

And yet there was nothing she could do.

The explosion reached her, even in the car. Jack checked her rear view mirror, wondering what had caused it. Even in the dark night, she saw the smoke billowing up into the sky, and cried out.

_Alex._

The car skidded when Jack hit the breaks, sending up a wave of water over her windshield. She slammed on the breaks again, trying to get some friction back on the wheels, but they were gliding over a patch of water, and had locked.

It only occurred to her that it had been raining for some time when she felt the car turn from the road, completely out of her control.

Jack braced herself for the impact as the car skidded sideways into the side of one of the warehouses, slamming the American into the wall.

Jack felt the impact in her very bones. She was jerked against the seatbelt by the force and the airbag deployed.

For a minute, she sat there, dazed, listening to the distant sound of rain falling, before she realized that she needed to get out of the car. She undid the belt, groaning from the force of her impact.

It wasn't until she had crawled over the seat beside hers, pulled herself entirely out of the car and sprawled on the ground next to the wreckage of the vehicle that she realized that she wasn't the only one on the side of the road. There was another car that had pulled up next to her wreck. She looked up, and in her blurry line of sight, she saw a figure – tall from her point of view, but he really could have been only average height – approaching.

_Scorpia, _a dull, exhausted part of Jack's mind said. She cringed back against the car, wondering if there was a crowbar at hand.

She never managed to get her hand up to start looking.

The figure knelt down in front of her, gently taking her chin in his had.

"Jack?" the disbelieving, all to familiar voice asked. "Jack, are you alright?"

"Oh fuck, I went and died," Jack whispered reverently, looking up at the face of the man she had once worked for. Worked for and _loved, _an inconvenient voice reminded her.

"You're not dead Jack," Ian Rider said calmly. Jack only stared.

He was dead.

She had stood at his grave and thrown flowers into it. She had placed a bouquet of Morning Glories on his grave every other Sunday for two years.

And yet here Ian stood.

"It can't be," Jack said. She must have hit her head. That was it. She had hit her head and was hallucinating.

"Jack," Ian said, reaching out a hand to pull her to her feet. She took it, feeling the warmth there. She gulped as he pulled her into a hug. "Lets get you out of this damned rain, you're soaking."

So she was having a very realistic, auditory, visual, and tactile hallucination. She must have done some real damage to her brain in that crash...

Suddenly, Ian released her, staring. "Your arm," he said hoarsely. Jack looked down and saw the blood and bone there.

There was a rush of blood to her head as she looked at the gory sight. The bone had been snapped in half and was sticking out of the mangled skin.

Something seemed to connect then, between the sight and knowledge that her arm was broken, because she felt an agonizing pain follow the shock. She swayed, but Ian caught her before she fell.

"Shit," she heard him say. She saw his head turn to where the smoke from the explosion was still visible, but she missed whatever he said next, because a second look at the gruesome break in her arm sent her out cold in a faint.

...

_*"I don't want you to go," Alex said angrily, pouting. He was glaring between Jack and Ian, not sure which of the two he was more upset with. _

_"Alex," Jack sighed. "My dad is getting remarried. It's a big deal. He called me five months ago to set a date I could come. He and his new wife want me to be a bridesmaid."_

_"And the Royal and General won't let me drop this trip," Ian said. Jack read the regret there, and sighed._

_"Its just two days," Ian continued. "And its school days. You should be doing karate, finishing your homework, and going to bed. You won't even notice the babysitter."_

_Alex made a face._

_"Ian, please stay?" he asked. Jack didn't know how Ian was able to fight off that look. Alex was only seven, but he had mastered the wounded puppy dog look to a level that should have been illegal. "Don't leave me! I'll be good, I promise! I don't want you to go!"_

_"We all have to make sacrifices sometimes, Alex," Ian said, sounding a little weary, and slightly disturbed by the fact that Alex was actually crying. These were completely uncharted waters for him. "What we want to do and what we need to do are not always going to coincide. Duty comes first."_

_"Ian, you're trying to reason with a seven year old," Jack snorted under her breath._

_"Did you have a better plan?" Ian asked out of the corner of his mouth. Jack nodded solemnly and sat down on the bed next to Alex._

_"I'll tell you what," Jack said, taking his hand. "We're going to play a game while the two of us are away. At night, if you're scared or lonely, you can call you me, and if you hold your breath, and listen hard enough in the dark, you'll hear me whisper back to you."_

_Alex sniffed and nodded, and hugged Jack tightly. _

_"The Taxi will be here any minute, and I need to go," Jack said after a moment. Alex held on half a minute later, but then relinquished Jack, no longer crying._

_"You promise?" He asked quietly._

_"I'm here, even when I'm not kiddo, whether or not you want me," Jack answered, kissing his forehead. "I couldn't leave you if I tried."_

_Alex settled back into bed._

_"Neither could I, I think," he said. _

_"I'll see you soon, okay?"_

_"Have fun at the wedding."_

_Jack appreciated that Alex had tried to sound sincere, when she knew all he felt was loss. She didn't like having to leave him like this, and had originally only consented because she had assumed Ian's bank wouldn't send him off when he was on only one able to look after a seven year old child._

_If she ever met any of Ian's bosses, she was going to have some choice words for them, that was certain._

_Ian followed her out of Alex's room, and once they were downstairs, he spoke._

_"If you listen hard enough in the dark?" It was only a little mocking._

_"Kids get scared Ian," Jack answered, not feeling at all slighted. Ian was a bit utilitarian – well, he had a right to be, he _was _a banker after all – but Alex needed a bit less function and a little more wonder in his life. He needed balance._

_"And scared kids – and a scared Alex especially – do not bode well for babysitters," Jack continued. How's that for practical?_

Ian just grinned and shook his head. He helped her bring her bag to the taxi waiting outside, despite her assurance that she didn't need help. When she was about to get in, Ian caught her arm.

_"Actually, I was only asking because I was wondering if you could do me the same favor," Ian asked._

_"Whispering in the dark?" Jack asked._

_But both of them had turned bright red, and were grinning like loons. _

...

Mrs. Jones was quite sure that she was loosing it. She was leaning out her window, breathing in the sharp early morning air, watching the few stars visible in the city disappear into the morning. She had been working through the night.

It was both a great gift and extremely sobering to remember that there was no one waiting for her at home. That she could spent all night at the office without a call from a husband or child waiting for her to come home.

If she simply lived at the Royal and General, there would be very little difference to her life, Mrs. Jones thought. And if she died, there were few who would notice the difference.

The responsibility of her job was almost suffocating these days. Once, she had only seen the glory and power that advancing quickly through the ranks of MI6 would give her.

But once she had accepted the office she currently held, she found it heavier on her heart than any other job had been. Thought she was second to the head of MI6, she was in fact possibly the least important person in her country.

A good director placed their people – the people of Britain – above all else. They gather intelligence to protect the state and its citizens.

A good director saw their agents safe at home before they call it a day and go home to rest.

A good director thinks twice, and thrice, and then again before calling upon an agent to send them into the field of battle.

For the people of Britain were her family – as she had none. Tulip Jones had no blood relations, but she considered all of Britain They were the people who she had sworn to protect. It was why she had joined intelligence. She had wanted to do good, to save the world.

She had a sacred duty to protect her country. Her family.

Of all those, the dearest of all her family were the agents, those who were her dear friends, who followed her command and returned her love and protection with love and duty. Who stood by her, and understood that queen and country and citizen came first, and allowed themselves to be sent into danger and death, mastering their fear and walking into peril without hesitation.

She knew there was nothing she would not sacrifice – or would ask or allow her agents to sacrifice – to fulfill their duties.

She found the reality of her job to be totally different than what it was supposed to be, however. To watch those she should be protecting die and suffer because of mismanagement was terrible to behold.

_Dear god, _Mrs. Jones thought, anger, betrayal, and despair sinking deep into her soul. She held back the tears no deputy director could ever shed, and locked away her heart, the tears she shed in private for every agent who came back in a box, for every file with the word 'deceased' stamped onto the side.

_If you're there, if can hear me, if you have any compassion, let me send no more to die._

_Nobody here but us, Jonsie, _John Rider answered mockingly. _And after all, it's your job to send us agents to die. Its what you do best._

The phone in her office rang, and Mrs. Jones started. She picked up the receiver.

"Yes?" Cold, professional.

"Ian Rider has been brought in."

"Congratulations Mr. Dawns, I was beginning to wonder if you were entirely incompetent," Mrs. Jones said sharply. And then, more softly, "He's alright?"

"Suffering some serious withdrawl from what I can tell, though he's hiding it well. And pissed about his housekeeper."

"Miss Starbright?" Mrs. Jones asked, wondering what exactly he meant.

"Sounds like Scorpia kidnapped her to lure in Alex, and we walked in on the deal. Don't know what they wanted from the kid though. Must be important. Anyway, the housekeeper got in a car accident getting away, and messed up her arm pretty badly."

"Where is she now?"

"In a hospital in D.C. We're keeping things on the DL."

"Good work Felix," Mrs. Jones said. "I expect Ian in my office tomorrow."

"Not Mr. Blunts'?"

Mrs. Jones hesitated for a moment, thinking over the point.

"My office, Mr. Dawns."

...

Ian Rider strode into the gathering of CIA agents, cool as a cucumber, and demanded a medic be brought over at once. He found himself facing twelve guns that were immediately trained on him and Jack.

"Ian Rider?" One of the agents asked carefully.

"No, I'm the bloody pope!" Ian snarled, wholly out of his ability to be patient for the evening, and made rather cross by coming down hard of the high of his drugs and drunkeness. Jack needed medical attention, and she needed it now! Why were these bloody idiots wasting so much time?

"Oh, for the bloody love of god," Ian muttered, putting Jack gently on the ground. "She's injured, make sure someone sees to her arm at once. She's lost a lot of blood."

With that, he withdrew the various weapons he had been concealing about his person, feeling extremely annoyed. He put them on the ground between him and the agents, not exactly glaring, but very close to it. .

"Could you treat her, please?" he asked, sarcasm dripping from the words. One of the braver – or perhaps more compassionate? – agents stepped forward and lifted the American woman into his arms, being careful of the horribly broken arm.

"Tell your paramedics she's allergic to Ampicillin and she has a resistance to Augmentin," Ian told the agent who had stepped forward. He nodded and moved back as quickly as he reasonably could without harming the woman in his arms.

"Ian Rider, you are under arrest for the crimes of obstruction of justice, seventeen counts of murder including six counts of murder of a federal agent, for obstructing an agent in the line of duty, evading arrest, kidnapping, the sale and purchase of illegal arms, carrying an illegal concealed weapon, theft of government property, and high treason."

Ian kept his face impassive as he heard Felix read out his charges. He did seem to be in a bit of trouble.

He just hoped that it wasn't a lost cause. After all, it wasn't like he'd done it to spite queen and country. He complied with the orders to lie flat and let his hands be cuffed together behind his back. The agents kept their guns at all times, waiting for him to make a wrong or unexpected move.

In answer, Ian moved slowly and deliberately, not wanting to give them a reason to shoot him. Though it wasn't like he had given them a great track record in terms of surrendering. Ian had to fight back a grin remembering that the men pulling his wrists behind his back and locking them together might well be the men who he had managed to beat even with his hands chained where they were.

But he kept his composure calm, his face blank. His mouth twisted in a grimace when he saw Felix approach him with a needle – he hated shots, of any kind, but he made no move to escape the injection.

Felix leaned in closer than was probably necessary to whisper in Ian's ear before he plunged the needle into Ian's arm.

The last words Ian heard before the ground rushed up to meet him and he was entirely at the mercy of his former employers, were "I'm sorry."

His last thought was: _well, I should bloody hope so!_

...

_Flowers Inc. on Gloucester Road was familiar with the order. Every other Sunday, the redheaded American who looked like she had spent more time crying than sleeping in the night came to pick up the bouquet of Morning Glories. _

_Eight AM she would come in, sometimes the first customer of the day. She paid for the flowers with a credit card registered to Jack Starbright._

_Ginny Harlim had worked the cash register there for nearly three years, and had yet to see the woman miss one of her regular visits. _

_She had come to learn through a set of conversations that the flowers were for a deceased friend – a dear friend who was a close as a brother, as Jack put it. But Ginny always suspected there was more than sisterly affection in the diligence behind Jack's ritual._

_Normally, the two wouldn't really chat. Jack wasn't very talkative when she came into the flower shop - as a general rule, most people had to work to get her to shut up, but every other Sunday morning was... it was time she had given over to Ian, and Ian alone._

_Over the course two and a half years however, the two had come to know each other. They would sometimes call each other, or meet up for coffee. _

_Today, when Jack came in, Ginny asked the question that had been on her mind since the third or fourth time Jack Starbright had come in with a request for morning glories._

_"Why Morning Glories?" Ginny asked as she rang up the order. She meant it to be offhand, a casual remark, but Jack paused in the action of rummaging through her purse, and felt the blood drain from her face._

_"Three reasons," she said quietly. _

_Ginny was surprised – she hadn't thought that Jack would honestly answer her question. Jack had always avoided personal queries, and Ginny had learned to respect that boundary – that Jack was a talkative and bright person, but there were some walls she was not willing to breach for Ginny. Jacks friendship was dear enough to Ginny to not want it to be spoiled by her curiosity. _

_"First, in Chinese culture, they are reminders of the love story between Chien Niu and Chih Neu. Both ignored their duties in favor of their romance, and were punished by the gods for it. They were separated by the Silver river and only allowed to meet once a year. It was on the first exam I got a perfect score on while living in London, and it was Ian who helped me study for it. That particular story was one he read to me when he was helping me. Somehow I always associated him with it._

_"And then there's the fact that Ian himself loved them – loved how delicate and contrary they were, how beautiful as well as functional. I think he's said he ate them once when he was locked in a conference room with a friend of his for two who days."_

_Ginny snickered a bit, and Jack smiled, caught up in the memory of the story._

_"What's the third?"_

_Jack's face grew somber._

_"The flower is a symbol for that which is not as it pretends to be." _

_The smile slid from Ginny's face as she realized Jack was being very serious. She never joked, not in the early mornings when she came to buy the flowers, not when the streets were still dark with fog and the city only starting to open and awaken. _

_Solemnly, Jack paid for the flowers and left, giving her friend a last smile at the door._

_At the grave of Ian Rider, she fell to her knees and cried as she had cried every time she had come here since his funeral. The loss was sharp, like a knife, and she felt it like a new wound that healed completely between visits, that was cut open again and again._

_Jack still didn't know why she did this to herself. Perhaps she thought if she reached out, just hard enough, she could have him back._

_It was that hope that devastated her over and over as she sat here and cried for him._

_Jack had watched Lord of the Rings with Alex many years back. One Sunday, they had decided to make a marathon of it, with popcorn and pop and ice cream and everything. Ian had been away on business – god knew where, Jack had stopped keeping track before Alex had turned seven – and they had just reached the part when the lord of Rivendell was convincing his daughter not to remain with the human soon-to=be-king Aragorn. _

_"There will be no comfort for you," the Elven king had said of her lover's death. "No comfort to ease the pain of his passing. He will come to death, an image of the splendor of the kings of men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world. But you, my daughter, you will linger on in darkness and in doubt, as nightfall in winter that comes without a star. Here you will dwell, bound to your grief, under the fading trees, until all the world is changed and the long years of your life are utterly spent."_

_That is what she felt like, Jack thought. She felt like Arwen, dressed in black at her lover's tomb, still sobbing for her lover's death after millennia, when all that Aragorn had been and fought for had turned to dust._

_And Ian was indeed, an image of splendor, of men who fought and died for what they believed in, a hero who had hid who he was until the very end._

_She had not meant what she said to Ginny to be a criticism of the man she had loved. It was the highest of compliments, that he was able to do whatever it took to defend that which he believed in. Ian was a man of many mysteries._

_She respected that, even if she didn't understand it._

_And she hated it just a little. Because, now, looking back, she didn't know how much of the life she had lived was false. A lie. _

_Respect always ended up winning out over hate, and she never stayed mad for long. She had always forgiven Ian his failings in life. And she would continue to do so in his death._

_But god almighty, she wanted Ian back. Not a single day went by that she didn't pray for that, to have Ian returned to her. _

_Fate, or god, Destiny, or random chance, or whatever force takes into account the balance of the world, and fixes it as necessary, isn't entirely unkind._

_Some prayers are answered, if only by chance. _

_Of course, Jack didn't understand that yet. She left the Morning Glories on his grave, and slowly walked away._

**...**

***For those of you who haven't read Red Crescent (and why have you not?), or have forgotten, Khawan means traitor in Arabic. This particular line is calling back a scene from Red Crescent in which Alex's heart stops, and he finds himself pissed off when he turns out to actually be alive, so he calls his pulse a traitor. **

***This scene is shamelessly borrowed from the movie the Mists of Avalon. It rocks. **

**((Psst! Hi, Ink here! I've avoided the homicidal crazies, for now... I was wondering if anyone else has seen the new season of Merlin, and would like to discuss it? =)**

**Anyway, you know the drill – if you send enough reviews in, maybe the crazy people will stop trying to kill me?**

**Alex: There she is!**

**Me: Where the hell did you guys get pitchforks and torches? Oh shit – Later guys!))**


	15. Assassins, Traitors, and Spies

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Assassins, Traitors, and Spies

**I am a terrible author. I haven't updated in months... O.O Please forgive me? I have had a busy few months... getting my wisdom teeth pulled, college apps, three AP classes, college apps, two debate conferences, college... SATs... Anyway, you get my drift... This is also a much shorter chapter than I'd normally like, but I can't give you 12 pages all the time... XD But I'm boring you. Here's Alex!**

**((Just to justify myself a little, to be fair, you guys only gave me like two reviews on that last chapter. You guys need to not forget to feed the muses on your way out! I mean, I'm certainly not feeding these guys... O.O))**

**~InK**

...

Mrs. Jones' words rang through Alex's head as he ran. _If you run now, I cannot defend you. _He hadn't expected less, and yet someone, those words hurt like a vote of no confidence.

_It's not like you expected her to help anyway, _Alex told himself sternly. _She never stood up to Blunt before. Odds were, she wouldn't do it now._

He kept running until he had no breath, trudging through the rain and puddles, soaked to the bone, shivering madly, and afraid for his life. He had gone maybe ten blocks before he collapsed against the side of a warehouse, lost and unable to go any further.

Alex sank to the ground, his lungs burning, gasping and sobbing in turn. He was cold, and alone, and he had never felt so abandoned in his entire life. Not when MI6 had neglected to send in backup when he was found out in Point Blanc, not hanging over a pit of crocodiles in Kenya, not on a godforsaken island commandeered by Scorpia as a training camp.

He might as well have given himself up. He wasn't going to last long on his own – he would either die or be captured in days on his own, he knew. He should have given himself up.

_I've lasted this long, _Alex told himself defiantly. _I can last longer. And even if I do lose, I've made my point. At least for a little while, I've won. _

The realization was enough to pull him to his feet again. He was ready to keep moving, to push on. He didn't know where he was going yet, but every step away from the warehouse, away from MI6, or the CIA, or whoever was looking for him, that was a step in the right direction. Alex needed to get back to Yedit's flat, get changed and dry, and then he needed to figure out his next move. He had to force himself to stay optimistic, to keep moving.

_Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot... _He concentrated on moving, stumbling along as fast as he could.

The sound of footsteps behind him made Alex stand up straight, pulling up the gun he had kept in his hand since running from the CIA. He turned to face his attacker. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw people moving in on him from all sides, and realized he was surrounded.

_Terrific. What's that you were saying about optimism?_

"Put down the gun little Alex," a voice behind him drawled. Alex whirled again, the gun shaking in his grip. In front of him stood Yassen Gregorovitch. The bloody bastard didn't even have a gun in his hands – not that Alex wasn't sure that he had a gun hidden in the waistband of his pants, or somewhere else within easy access.

"Imagine – I come down to Boston to make trouble for Scorpia, and here you are, already one step ahead of me," Yassen said. His face was unreadable. "I had really hoped that when I put you on a plane in Tunisia, that would be the last I had to see of you. I don't considerably enjoy babysitting."

"Yeah well, you know how much I love throwing myself towards danger and certain death," Alex shot back sarcastically.

"I believe I told you that if we were to cross paths in the context of my job, I would see to it that you were permanently maimed," Yassen replied, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Alex. He seemed to be weighing a decision. Alex took a step back, wanting to put distance between himself and the Russian assassin.

"Leave me alone," he said. Alex knew he sounded as frightened as he felt, but he wasn't going to stand here and cower. He met the assassin's eyes squarely. He hadn't yet lowered the gun.

"We have been through this, little Alex," Yassen said. He sounded more annoyed than anything else. "You will not pull the trigger."

"You don't need to pull a trigger to make a gun useful," Alex snarled, leaping forward. He slammed the butt of the gun into the side of Yassen's head, before jumping back and running for his life.

He made it about two steps before a vice-like grip grabbed his arm, and pulled him back, bending the arm behind him. Despite himself, Alex hasped out in pain.

"That was a mistake," Yassen breathed into Alex's ear. The assassin had officially gone from annoyed to incredibly pissed off, Alex decided. He struggled uselessly in the assassin's grip, but the older man was too strong, had too much of an advantage for Alex to be able to overcome him.

"What do you want from me?" Alex demanded desperately. "Just leave me alone!"  
"Unfortunately, Alex, every time I do that, you seem to end up back in trouble," Yassen said thoughtfully behind him.

"What does it even matter to you?" Alex cried.

"It matters, because John was my best friend," Yassen growled. "Over the years, I haven't kept a lot of the promises I've made, but for fourteen years, I was doing a decent job of keeping this one."

"My dad's been dead for a long time," Alex said. "He's gone, and I doubt he gives a shit about any promises he made you give sixteen years ago."

"That is hardly the point," Yassen said softly and thoughtfully.

"Fucking psychopath," Alex muttered. The grip around his arm tightened, and he winced from the added pressure.

"Look, I'm trying to get out," Alex said angrily. "Don't you think I would if I could?"

"You are not doing a very good job of it," Yassen said.

"I'd be doing better if you would leave me alone," Alex muttered angrily, trying to jerk out of the assassins grip. Yassen just tightened his hold on Alex's arm, wrenching it further back. The teenage spy stopped struggling, gasping from the pain.

"Let me go!" He yelled.

There was no answer. He felt Yassen move behind him, his left arm reaching out for something, and then the sting of a needle at the side of his neck.

_Perfect, _Alex thought bitterly as the night closed in on him. _Absolutely, bloody, fucking perfect._

...

Jack woke to blinding white light and the crisp, bitter smell of antiseptic. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was dinner with Donny, and then getting kidnapped... Alex... _Oh god, Alex! _Where was he? Was he okay? She had to find him!

Jack pulled herself up into a sitting position, a feat that was make considerably more difficult than it should have been by the bulky splint around her arm.

_I lost control of the car, _she remembered. _And Ian was there. Ian. _

Jack had to laugh at herself for being so silly. She realized, looking around, that she was in a hospital room. There was a man sitting by a chair in the corner. For a second – for one, thrilling, terrifying, wonderful second – Jack thought it was Ian. But then he looked up, and Jack sank back in disappointment. Not Ian.

This man was in his late twenties, fit, with close-cropped hair. He was cute - the kind of guy Jack might have flirted with without reserve before Ian had died.

"You're awake," he said, stating the obvious.

"Are you always this perceptive?" Jack snarked back. The man grinned, chuckling to himself.

"I don't mean to be rude," Jack said, "but where exactly are we?"

"District of Columbia," the man answered. "George Washington University Hospital."

"And who exactly are you?" Jack asked.

"I'm James," the man said, not moving from his chair by the door. "James Wells."

"And why are you here James?" Jack was aware she was giving this man – James – the third degree, but it didn't matter. Not really.

"MI6 sent me to keep an eye on things," James said. But his cheeks burned red, and he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"I see," Jack said. From what she could tell, that pretty much meant he was here to catch Alex if he decided to show up. She immediately disliked him for it.

Further conversation was stymied by the arrival of a woman in a lab coat. "Hello Miss Starbright, I'm Doctor Samari." Jack nodded, shaking the hand.

"Is the break bad?" Jack asked. "No offense or anything, I'm not a fan of hospitals, and I'd rather get out of here sooner than later."

Dr. Samari smiled sympathetically. "None taken," she assured Jack. "Unfortunately, since the break in your arm was open, and you had some chance to be exposed to infection since it occurred, I'd like to keep you here for a day or two, on a strict regimen of antibiotics to be sure that you haven't picked up anything nasty. I've put a splint around your arm, but you're still going to be careful moving it. Once the wound is closing properly, we can set you up with a cast, and then you're good to go."

"So I have to stay here for a few days?" Jack asked, resigned.

"Just until we're sure you're no longer at risk for infection," the doctor clarified with a smile.

"Alright," Jack wanted to scream blue murder, but she bit her tongue. She wasn't a fan of hospitals. But every second she had to spend in this place meant less time she could be looking for Alex – or a way to help him out of this mess. Instead, she was sitting in bed, being watched by some stupid MI6 goon... She fought the urge to sigh and pout like a little kid, and only won by a very small margin.

"We'll try and get you out of here as soon as possible," Again, with the overbearing sympathy! Jack was glad when the doctor excused herself. People who were that cheerful should never be allowed to work in medicine.

"So you're just going to sit there for two days?" Jack asked James. It was bordering on a growl, but she didn't care.

"Three of us will be, on a rotating shift. Sorry."

Jack nodded. For about a minute and a half, the two of them sat in silence, until Jack couldn't take it any more.

"Why?" She burst out. "What does MI6 possibly hope to achieve by having three agents waste their time watching _me_? I'm not even British!"

"I'm not at liberty to disclose that."

Jack ground her teeth together. Even if he _was _cute, this guy was even more frustrating than Ian at Christmas. This was going to be a fun few days. At least her room had a T.V, she decided grumpily. 

...

Ian Rider stood in front of his former employers, eyes downcast and rimmed with dark circles. He hadn't shaved in days, and looked like a terrible mess. His body shook almost imperceptibly – not from fear, but frailty – and he was thinner than Tulip could ever remember him being.

Unfortunately, Tulip could no longer afford him the leniency she had hoped she could when they had last spoken, even though Ian looked like he had been dragged through the wars. Her men had raided the complexes Ian had identified last night, and they were empty. No signs of men or weapons had been found there.

That was why they were in Alan Blunt's office. Four men stood outside to guard the door, and Rider's hands were handcuffed behind him, his legs hobbled at the ankle.

"Where are the weapons Ian?"

Alan's voice was as cold as ice when he spoke. Ian flinched, not meeting the eyes of either of his superior officers. Mrs. Jones could see the pain etched on his face, trying to sort through the question, to fight through the withdrawl. If it was a performance, it was spot on.

_He is one of our best, _she reminded herself. _Or at least he was. _The idea that Ian was playing her hurt her more than she could admit to herself. Whether that was pride (it was, after all, on her endorsement that Ian had joined MI6), or loyalty, even she wasn't sure.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know, I don't know," Ian mumbled. His voice was hoarse and agitated, his hands endlessly wringing around one another within the handcuffs. "Please..."

Mrs. Jones glanced Mr. Blunt. The director of MI6 showed no change of facial expression that might enlighten her as to his thoughts however. He remained as blank and impervious as the day he had hired her.

"Ian," Mrs. Jones said gently. He looked up then, meeting her eyes. It was hard to believe this was the man she had spoken to on the phone a day ago. Clearly, Ian Rider was coming down hard off of whatever drugs Scorpia had been feeding into his system. "You need to concentrate. Scorpia had you stockpiling weapons for a little over a year. Where did they all go? Where are they?"

Ian shook his head from side to side, still trembling.

"Alan, we're not going to get any answers out of him until he's recovered," Mrs. Jones said. "We already know Scorpia was feeding him a mixture of opiates, and he's clearly suffering from withdrawl."

Alan actually managed to arrainge his face into some kind of a glare, clearly meaning for his deputy to shut up. She responded with her own blank look, reminding him silently that he was not the only authority within their agency. The director of MI6 exhaled heavily through his nose before turning back to the agent-turned-traitor.

"We don't have time to wait," he said. "There is currently a small army running around London with enough weapons to go to war with an entire city. This isn't the time for coddling Tulip."

And of course she knew that, but she also doubted Ian could tell them anything.

That is, unless Ian had deliberately misled her when he had called, and was still playing her for all she was worth. Mrs. Jones' head gave a painful throb. Alan was right – they needed to know where those weapons were, and fast.

"There's always Alex," she said thoughtfully.

When Ian looked up, Mrs. Jones had to pinch herself to remind herself that she wasn't looking at his brother. Sixteen years ago, John had looked at her with that same horror etched into every drawn line of his face, the same combination of resignation and fear that had finally broken him, when Mrs. Jones had suggested hiding away his family.

"Leave Alex out of this," Ian whispered. "Haven't you already done enough to him?"

"Alex needn't be involved if you can tell us what we need to know," Alan said.

"I don't know anything! I don't know! They must have had a bug on me or something, they must have known when I gave them up..."

"Enough," Alan said sharply. He pressed a button under his desk, and two of their men opened the door and took Ian by either arm. "Take him downstairs, we'll discuss this later," he said, watching as the two practically dragged a panicking Ian from the room.

"He's hiding something," the director said as soon as the ex-agent was gone.

"I'm not so sure Alan," Mrs. Jones said. "I think he's frightened and backed into a corner, and I don't think being tortured by Scorpia helped him any."

"I think being tortured by Scorpia threw the last of his few screws loose," Alan replied without mercy. "Tulip, I want Alex found. Today. I want him brought in as soon as possible. I won't have our men divided, running around trying to clean up after two rogue agents. Meanwhile, lets have our men start canvassing anywhere near London where that many weapons could be concealed."

"And if they have the weapons in separate caches?" Mrs. Jones asked.

"What other lead do we have?" Alan asked, desperation creeping through his voice. "Until we find Alex, Ian won't talk. Unless someone gives us something, we're in for a major disaster. We cannot allow it to happen."

Mrs. Jones didn't argue with her boss. As she had so many times before, she nodded, biting back the harsh remark she wanted to throw at him, before exiting the room.

_What a mess, _she thought, walking down the hall.

...

Alex woke up to a raging headache. He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed at Yassen or pissed off with himself.

He shifted, and realized his left wrist was cuffed to the arm of the couch he was lying on, and decided that he was definitely more pissed with the assassin than he was with himself. He pulled himself into a sitting position and looked around.

He was in a hotel room. He twisted around, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse out of a window or something. The curtains were drawn, however, so he was still in the dark about where he was.

"Damn it," he muttered. If anything, he would be glad to get out of this business so that he could stop getting drugged and waking up in strange hotel rooms. Even in his head, the protest was ridiculous. _Do all spies have to deal with getting kidnapped all the time, or am I just lucky? _Alex asked himself grumpily, using his free right hand to rub as his temples, trying to make the pounding headache disappear.

About three months ago, when Alex's football team had made it to the playoffs, they had gone to Cardiff to compete against a bunch of other schools. They had only made it two rounds in before getting beaten out, but the last night the team had been staying there, one of the students in the lower sixth had used a fake ID to get some vodka. Alex had made the mistake of drinking with his teammates, and had made three important discoveries within the next twelve hours.

The first was that vodka tastes like shoe polish and nail polish remover mixed together. The second was that he could drink like a Russian and still walk a straight line. And the third was that hangovers were a bitch and a half.

That's how Alex felt now – completely hung over.

_You would think someone would come up with a drug that could knock someone out without the side effects of having drowned them in alcohol, _Alex thought to himself, head in his hands. He heard the door open and shut, and looked up to find himself looking at Yassen Gregorovitch.

"What exactly do you want from me?" Alex demanded. The assassin didn't say anything, just moved forward and unlocked the handcuff, drawing a key from his back pocket.

"You and I are going to have a little conversation," Yassen said. "Afterwards, you will be free to go of your own violation. The handcuff was merely a precaution – I did not wish to come back and find my hotel room demolished." Alex snorted derisively.

"We were talking just fine by the warehouses," he said stubbornly.

"I am going to offer you a choice," Yassen said, ignoring Alex's response. "You are currently in a difficult situation. Both your employers and your enemies are looking for your blood. You currently have no assets, no contacts, and no resources."

It was the most words Alex had ever heard the assassin speak at one time. Heck, Alex thought, it might be more words than he had ever heard from him. Alex kept quiet, not mentioning Yedit's safehouse. If Yassen knew, there was no point discussing it, and if he didn't, there was no need to drag the Israeli intelligence officer into this.

"What exactly are you proposing?" Alex asked, crossing his arms.

"I can help you hide so that neither Scorpia, nor MI6, nor anyone else, can ever find you again. I know how to create a cover so deep, it will withstand the closest government scrutiny."

"And why would you want to do this?" Alex asked suspiciously.

"You, little Alex, are singularly annoying, and have impaired my ability to do my job," Yassen said. "And considering I promised your father – my best friend – that no harm would come to you because of his job, I find it rather difficult to have to deal with trying to work with you always in my crosshairs."

Alex smirked, despite himself. _Nice to be appreciated, _he thought smugly. Perhaps working with MI6 was worth it, if only to piss off people like Gregorovitch. _People who killed your uncle, _Alex reminded himself. It was easy to forget that this man was his enemy – his foe – when he was offering Alex help, for whatever reason.

But at the end of the day, Yassen had still captured Ian. Even if it was just business, even if it wasn't personal, he had still captured the man who had in all but conception been Alex's father, and handed him over to Scorpia, who had tortured him and driven him insane.

And even if Ian had lied to Alex, and was now working on a massive campaign to kill everyone in sight,

"And if I should choose not to take you up on your offer of protection?" Alex asked.

"I will let you leave with no further mention of this," Yassen replied. "I will keep my promise to John, but I will not hurt you to keep MI6 from doing the same. If you wish to walk away, I will not stop you."

Alex nodded. He had already made up his mind before Yassen had spoken, but now he was sure. Yes he was alone, and yes, he was afraid out of his mind. But there were some places he didn't need to go to for help. He wouldn't indebt himself to an assassin any more than he could help it. Even if it meant being captured by MI6, he wasn't going to sell his soul to the devil to get help.

"I'll manage fine on my own, thanks," he said, getting up, making his way to the door – _since when had walking become so painful? _Alex wondered – limping as he went. Yassen watched his progress, but did not stop him as he stepped out into the bright midday sunshine, and closed the door behind him.


	16. The Face of the Devil

Operation: Bury Your Dead – The Face of the Devil

**Blarg, college essays... O.O Anyway, I also managed to write this up for you lot. I expect to see reviews, now that I can get closer updates out, capische? For anyone interested in the article Alex was using, I can link you if you PM me or review and ask. It's a fun one. **

**This is called a hint: I like reviews. =)**

**~InK**

**...**

Standing on the street outside Yassen's hotel, Alex's first thought was that he needed to get back to Yedit's flat.

_Kurst knew to call me there, _Alex told himself, thinking pragmatically. _Somehow, he knew where I was. I can't go back there again, in case he's still watching it. And he probably will be._

Alex wondered briefly if Yedit had sold him out. Alex had certainly misjudged the characters of people trying to help him before. Somehow, however, he doubted it. It was one more mystery to ponder, and right now mysteries were the last thing he needed. What he needed was to stop the army that was going to be attacking London, under his own uncle's command. He had seen the mercenaries, knew that the man was ordering weapons.

_I have to get to London, have to stop him, _Alex reasoned. _But Jack..._

_Jack._

Alex stopped where he was. He didn't even know if the bright, redheaded American who was now his legal guardian was alive, let alone where she was. He needed to find her. And odds were, finding her wouldn't put him right in MI6's backyard.

_Finding Jack or stopping Ian... Finding Jack, or stopping Ian. _Alex chewed his lip as he thought. If he was going to stop Ian, he had to move quickly – he had no idea how much time he had left. But he also had no idea where to start looking for Jack. And he did know that if he made it to London, he would be able to find out where Ian's army was. There weren't many places you could hide the kind of weapons Yedit had told him Ian had bought. Rockets, machine guns... all of them required room. And then the agents who would be using the guns needed a place to eat and sleep, and even work on the weapons.

_Not that I have any idea how to sneak onto a plane, _Alex thought bitterly. But he brightened as another idea struck him.

_I'm going to need to get back to the flat though, _Alex realized. Did he dare risk it?

_To stop Ian, I have to. Nobody else can, _Alex thought.

_It's not your business! Your business is with Jack!_

_Ian is going to _kill _people._

_Jack is your guardian!_

_Nobody else knows what he's planning!_

_So? You're a teenager, remember?_

_That never mattered before. When something's wrong, whoever can deal with it should deal with it. I can stop Ian – I don't know if anyone else can._

_So you're going to break the law, throw yourself in harms way, just to save a bunch of people you don't know, and an organization you despise? What does it matter if Ian kills Blunt?_

_It matters. What the fuck else can I do?_

_Find Jack._

_I won't watch hundreds, if not thousands of people die just to stay safe._

_So don't look. It's. Not. Your. Job._

_Sod off!_

Alex set off, a new purpose to his step. He knew he was maybe four miles from the flat, not a long distance. He could walk it with ease. He had made his decision.

Re-entering the flat hours later, Alex watched carefully for any signs that anything had been tampered with that might show that someone was lying in wait for him. He listened as hard as he could, wondering if there was an assassin somewhere, waiting for him.

When nothing jumped out at him, he remained on guard, but he entered the flat, moving quickly in order to gather everything he needed – the laptop on the bookshelf, a credit card hidden in a false drawer in the bedroom, and packed a bag of clothes. He didn't bother with the weapons. It wasn't worth trying to sneak them onto the plane, and besides, he honestly didn't think he was going to find a use for them. He might hate the person Ian had become, but Alex didn't think he would be able to pull the trigger on a gun pointing at his uncle, if things came down to that,

If that make him weak, then he was willing to live with that. It was what separated him from assassins like Yassen Gregorovitch. Like his father and his uncle.

Alex left as soon as he could. Just because Kurst didn't have someone waiting for him didn't mean that he wouldn't have someone watching the flat, ready to report back to him. He needed to move again.

Ten blocks over, Alex paused by the door of a car, picking the lock with ease. He slid in, hotwired the car with the easy grace of too much practice, and buckled his seatbelt, bitterly remembering Ian's obsession with car safety.

_Don't think, move._

Alex got on a freeway that identified itself as the I-95 north, not really sure where he was going. He just needed to get away, away from Kurst and his Scorpia cronies, away from Yassen and his rebellion... away from MI6 and the CIA, who were hunting for his blood.

He stopped around noon in Portland, Maine. He pulled over at a Starbucks.

Alex knew that he had a few major problems with getting on a plane to England. Currently, his biggest one was that he was sure his name was on the no-fly list, which meant the second his name came up on the TSA database, he was going to be detained and arrested. Fortunately, there was a simple fix to that major problem.

About three months ago, Alex had been surfing on stumbleupon, a site that Tom had gotten him addicted to. He had read this article about a man who had decided to dedicate his time to proving that TSA regulations were silly. He did so by sneaking all manner of things past airport security, including getting on a plane without being checked against the no-fly list.

What Alex had learned from that article was that the name of someone who buys a ticket is only checked once against the no-fly list, which is at the point of purchase. Getting around the list is much more simple than it should be. You buy a ticket online using someone else's credit card. Once you have the ticket, you can alter it quite easily on photoshop, just blanking out the name, and replacing your own. Print it out at home, and you don't need to interact with someone at the airport who will actually run your name by the no-fly list.

You use the faked boarding pass to get through the second stage of security (with your real name and passport if you wanted to), because the TSA officials are only comparing the boarding pass to the ID at that point.

When you board the plane, you have them scan the actual boarding pass – since the only goal of this stage of security is the validity of the boarding pass.

And viola, just like that, you're on the plane.

Alex bought the boarding pass under the name the card was registered to – Sarah Renoux – and make quick work of the editing. It was a pricy ticket, for the first flight out of Maine for London that afternoon, but Alex didn't care. He had to get to London as soon as possible. One of the cashiers even helpfully showed him to a printer the staff used, and let him use it to print the fake ticket and it's legitimate counterpart before he left. When he had the two pages printed out, he had two tickets for a flight to London, one in his own name, and the other with the name on Yedit's credit card.

He also used Google maps to figure out how to get to the Portland International Jetport, which as far as Alex could figure out was the closest airport to where he was.

Remembering his last time on a plane, Alex wasn't really all that thrilled to get back up in the air. But he really didn't have a leg to stand on when it came to this line of logic. He literally had no defense against the argument that he needed to stop Ian, save for his own fear. And Alex had won over that particular aspect of his own psyche enough times to be able to call that particular claim total bullshit. He was pretty sure the entire idea was insane as all hell, but that had never stopped him before.

He was taking an incredible chance, but its not like he hadn't taken any more dangerous gambles in his lifetime.

...

"I thought you said that the drugs would be foolproof," Levi Kroll said. He sounded bored, but there was a dangerous threat lurking underneath his controlled tone.

"I did not," Zeljan Kurst replied. "Dr. Three and I did not design them to be foolproof – for the simple reason that psychological warfare cannot _be_ foolproof. The plan can still be carried out. Ian Rider has served his usefulness."

"We can order the operation to proceed," Dr. Three added. "The weapons and agents are already in place in London, waiting for the command to move."

The former Mossad agent nodded thoughtfully.

"Very well, then let us move forward," he said. "When do you propose putting the first stage into action?"

"We should attack now, while MI6 are off guard and believe they have caught their culprit," Kurst said at once. "We need to act soon – this new job that we have lined up with the Elgin Marbles will not last forever."

"No," Three answered. "Rider will incriminate himself further with his silence. Without the drugs, he will still be battling his own dependency on them. MI6 will grow nervous. And even with time to prepare, MI6 will be sloppy, and they will make mistakes because of it. Scorpia is successful because we do not make mistakes. We do not make mistakes, because we do not allow ourselves to be caught off guard. Moving rashly will not help us."

"Waiting gives them more time to raise their defenses, and Ian Rider more time to fight the effects of the drugs," Kurst maintained. "And have you forgotten the younger Rider? He's still out there somewhere."

"Alex Rider is of no consequence," Kroll said calmly.

"Alex Rider has ruined three of our operations to date," Kurst replied.

"And managed to waylay your attempt to kidnap him with a hastily make smoke grenade," Three snapped snidely. Kurst glared, but acquiesced.

"How long do you wish to wait?"

"A few days," Three said lightly, brushing off the questions. "I want to see which way the wind is blowing. In the meantime, let us concentrate our efforts on exterminating our dissidents. I very much wish to see Evert Zaaiman's head on the chopping block."

The other two board members nodded vehemently at that. Evert Zaaiman was becoming quite the thorn in Scorpia's side.

_He has a long way to go yet before he is nearly as annoying as Alex Rider, _Kurst thought privately. But he did not share his thoughts.

The boy would be dead, when all the dust in this matter had settled. Alex Rider's days were numbered.

...

Alex handed his passport and the boarding pass he had altered to have his real name on it to the TSA agent. The woman considered the two documents. There was a breathless moment when he thought she was going to call him out, in which Alex remained perfectly still, trying to remain calm, but she only ran a light over his passport, and then scribbled something on the ticket.

"Enjoy your flight," she said, and Alex walked on, hardly daring to believe it.

Alex put his bag on the conveyor belt and stepped through the scanner. It didn't beep, so apparently Alex met with its approval as well as that of the TSA security guard just beyond. Feeling slightly more relaxed that he had felt stepping into the airport, Alex put his jacket back on, and shouldered his backpack once more.

Alex made his first stop at the men's room, where he stepped into a stall and quietly tore up the fake pass. He needed to make sure that no one would catch him with two boarding tickets. That would undo all of his plans, and Alex had no intention of being caught on his way to London. That would really suck.

Then again, with his luck, Alex figured that he would probably be found out just as he boarded the plane.

Making a face, Alex flushed the toilet, obliterating all the evidence of his faked ticket.

Now, if he could get onto the plane without incident, and make it through customs on the other end of the flight, he could start looking for his uncle.

_And then? _Alex asked himself sitting in the gate area, waiting for his flight to start boarding. _What will you do after you've saved the world again? Will you go back to running?_

Alex watched a team of airport security as they went through the airport, doing random ID checks and searches. He felt his heart race, but they didn't come near him.

_I won't run, _he promised himself. _If I survive this, if I can stop what's coming, I won't keep running._

The weight of that promise fell upon him with the final certainty of stone. But Alex didn't care.

He wanted to stop being used, but what he had learned was that being free from MI6 didn't mean that he wasn't going to be used, it just opened him up for the wrong kind of influence. Alex had already decided that he couldn't allow his fear to be in control of his actions.

Well then, he was just going to have to face up to this mission like a man, and make sure that he didn't die, like he always did. He couldn't let this destroy him. Not when he had come so far and survived so much.

"Flight 249, for London, boarding now!" A voice called over the intercom, cutting through Alex's reverie.

It was time.

Alex stood, glancing down at the pass. He held it so that the name wasn't visible so long as you didn't look hard enough.

The man at the door was scanning tickets. He didn't even look at Alex or the ticket as he ran it through the scanner and handed it back to Alex. The teenager nodded this thanks, and walked onto the plane.

_Halfway there, _he thought victoriously. He found his seat, stowed his bag, and settled down to wait out the long flight from Maine to London.

If terrorists hijacked this plane, or if it nearly went down over the Atlantic, but was miraculously saved, Alex never knew. He was asleep five minutes after takeoff, and didn't wake up until a stewardess stopped by to give him a card he needed to fill out for customs and a pen.

Blearily, Alex Xed out all the boxes that asked if he was bringing anything with him, and the rest of the information the card required.

As he woke up and realized that they would soon be in London, Alex wondered whether or not there would be any agents at customs, looking for him. He doubted it – he had been missing long enough that MI6 could not possibly expect that they would be able to find him by having eyes everywhere. Large scale, long-term manhunts are just impractical, Alex knew.

Still, he was nearly out of his mind when he approached the customs officer. It was very late at night, and the only people around seemed to be the passengers on Alex's fight. The airport was extremely quiet. Alex didn't like that – if there was someone waiting for him, they would be able to find him that much easier if the crowd was this thin. His heart pounded as the man in the booth waved him forward.

"You're traveling on your own?" he asked, looking down at Alex.

"Yeah, coming home from being on holiday with some American relatives," Alex said.

"Do you have anyone to pick you up?"

"I'm taking a taxi to my uncle's house," Alex said without hesitation. He had rehearsed his story in his head all the way to the airport. The man nodded, taking a sip of coffee. He looked like he was coming off a long shift, and Alex realized the early hour might actually work in his favor. The man examined his passport for a few minutes and then nodded, stamping it with his seal of approval.

And just like that, Alex Rider had returned to London without his employers being any the wiser.

It was raining outside the airport. Alex flagged down a cab and gave the driver the address of a nearby hotel. Alex needed a base of operations to start looking for Ian and his army.

The drive was only about fifteen minutes. Alex was staying just a few blocks away from the Royal and General.

Alone in the hotel room, Alex allowed himself to grin. He had finally gotten one up on his employers. That felt good – to know that even now, while he was on the blacklist with the agency on high alert, he could slip through their fingers if he ever wanted to.

And to be truthful, Alex had almost forgotten how much fun spying was. Well, some parts of it anyway.

Having slept most of the flight, Alex wasn't really in the mood to rest. Instead, he emptied his bag onto the bed, examining what he had and starting to plan his next move.

He needed to find Ian, and fast. He had a few days at most. He was honestly surprised that London wasn't already in pieces.

Alex took a deep, steadying breath, and booted up Google Earth on his – well, Yedit's - laptop.

_If I were a massive store of weapons, where would I hide?_

...

Two days passed.

Alex had picked up his bike from his house in Chelsea, having broken into his the building in the dead of night. There had been surveillance there – a three man team, two of them in a parked van across the street, and one on a perimeter check every hour. Alex had also seen the camera's set up around the outside of his house. Clearly, MI6 expected him to return here.

They had been right, but that didn't mean they would catch Alex because of it.

He had used the bike to go around town, systematically checking all the places he had decided were most likely places to store weapons. When all of those proved to be false leads, Alex turned to the less likely places. He had biked over miles and miles of London. With his hair dyed black, and wearing a pair of shades that he bought in London, he was virtually unrecognizable, for which he was thankful (avoiding traffic cameras would have been too much of a pain for him to be able to do anything).

But he still hadn't found anything.

Alex was starting to get more and more nervous. Ian could make his move at any time – what was he waiting for? At any second, the rockets could start flying.

_This is insane, you should just warn MI6 and get them to evacuate the city, _Alex argued.

But Alex remembered something Ian himself had told Alex a long time ago.

_"The goal of terrorists is to throw a country into chaos," he said. "To do that, a terrorist doesn't need to fly a plane into a building, or assassinate a member of Parliament. All that's necessary is a viable enough threat, and they'll have done their jobs."_

Even if the city were to be evacuated, it would create a panic. MI6 would lose control. That was Ian's goal. He had the secret service coming and going.

Alex cursed, as he turned a corner on his bike, heading towards the sixth place this morning he was checking.

He stopped his bike in front of a store with a huge FOR LEASE sign in the window. Carefully locking his bike outside, Alex peered in.

Nothing.

Well, not that he expected to find anything. If Ian really was hiding rockets here, Alex doubted that they would be on display in the window.

Then again, Alex also doubted that Ian was hiding rockets here. After having checked so many places, he was really starting to get annoyed by this whole process. He went around back, breaking a window and sneaking in.

A few minutes of careful searching told him nothing was here, and he causally stepped back out, walking around to retrieve his bike.

_One more down, _Alex told himself bracingly.

_What, am I going to have to search every building in the entire city? _Another part of him asked, bristling with irritation. _This is ridiculous. While I'm running around, blindly looking for a bunch of rockets, everyone in this city is in danger._

Three more stops yielded the same results. Disheartened, Alex consulted his map. It was getting late. He should really get back to the hotel and come up with another plan of attack.

_Just one more, _Alex promised himself. _One more, and I'll give up. _

It was dark when Alex finally reached the old factory. It wasn't abandoned, but it didn't seem well used, as if the company that owned it had only just moved on.

Alex approached quietly, moving lightly on his feet. If this was Ian's hideout, Alex hardly thought that he wanted to alert him to his presence. Not yet, anyway.

The door was locked with a padlock, but that didn't mean anything. Anyone could be hiding behind a locked door.

Alex didn't bother picking the lock. He had spent half his day picking locks, and his injured hand was sore and painful (not to mention starting to bleed again), and he was tired of playing these stupid games. He doubted anyone would be on the top floor of the warehouse anyway. Trying to look like he belonged, Alex cast around until he found what he was looking for. It was a piece of pipe, long and thin. Alex grabbed it and returned to the door.

Jamming his makeshift crowbar behind the handlebars, Alex got the bar into a decent position and pulled.

The handles came free, and the doors in front of him swung open.

It looked like the factory had been used as a toy assembly line. Big pieces of machinery were everywhere, connected by conveyer belts. There were stray dolls and stuffed animals lying around, tipping Alex off to the history of the building. It looked as if its previous occupants had left in a hurry.

Alex wandered around, still holding the piece of pipe, looking for some sign of life. It looked like no one had been there since the original factory workers had left. About to give it up as a bad job, Alex turned back towards the door.

As he did, however, something caught his eye from the floor. It was a big dark stain. Alex bent down, eyeing it apprehensively.

It was blood.

_Perhaps this is the right place after all, _Alex thought, standing. He felt a little ill – Ian's army had done this, had killed people inside here –

_You don't know that, _Alex told himself firmly. _It could have been an industrial accident. Anything. There are perfectly legitimate reasons why someone might hurt themselves in a factory that have nothing to do with guns._

Alex decided however, that perhaps he needed to take a closer look around. He might had missed something – a hidden trapdoor, a false wall... there were plenty of ways to hide in plain sight in a building like this.

Several minutes later, Alex still hadn't found anything, but he wasn't willing to give up yet. Something about this place set his teeth on edge. Maybe it was just the way his footsteps echoed around the room as he walked. Maybe it was the fact that night was coming, and he was alone in a strange building with blood on the floor. But Alex's instincts were telling him to run, which was usually an indication that he was in the right place.

Alex found a stairway at the back of the warehouse, and followed it down. It only went down one floor, leading to a hallway that looked a lot like a storage facility. Big garage doors were placed along the walls at regular intervals.

_Those would be big enough to hide stores of guns, _Alex thought, looking around. But where were the people to shoot them?

The light down here was dim, and it was difficult to see. The hallway was lined with pipes along the ceiling, which were letting out bursts of steam – faulty plumbing.

The hallway turned left abruptly, and Alex saw two men in black, both armed. His breath caught in his throat, and he readied himself to run. But they didn't even change their pace. They were walking away, Alex realized, feeling silly.

_Looks like I'm in the right place, _he thought. _Why else would you have armed guards, wandering around down here?_

Alex followed the two at a distance, a new determination coming over him. They could lead him to Ian.

It was time to finish this.

...

"Alex Rider is back in London," Alan Blunt said conversationally over lunch.

Mrs. Jones winced. _How was that even possible?_

"How is that even possible?" She asked, voicing her thoughts.

"The how is irrelevant for the present, though I suggest we add it to the ever growing list of questions we have for Rider when we finally catch him."

"Of course," Mrs. Jones said calmly. "Is there any intelligence on what he wants in London?" Alan Blunt sighed, and for a moment, he looked very old, and very, very tired. Mrs. Jones wondered how old her superior was. Thirty? Fifty-five? He could have passed for a man of almost any age. But right now, he looked about a hundred.

"I can only assume he is here to finish his uncle's work," he said quietly.

"Do you really think that that is the case?" Mrs. Jones asked skeptically.

"Please, if you can divine any other reason he would come back to London, now, I would love to hear it," Blunt replied.

"He could be here to clear his name," she suggested. The director of MI6 sighed again, but when he looked up, the mask was back in place. He was all business once again.

"I can only hope you are right, Tulip, even if I cannot see any possible way that that could be the case," he said.

...

Visibility in the corridor was low. Alex couldn't see more than twenty feet ahead of him. Then again, that was good for him because it hid him too. He held the piece of pipe in front of him, ready to defend himself against any surprises.

The sounds of faint yelling in German reached Alex from down the corridor. He couldn't make out the actual words, but as he got closer, he realized that it was an argument.

"...idiot!" Someone was shouting. "Trying to make me look stupid in front of the boss!" Alex smirked, and kept moving. _Ah, the joys of domestic arguments, _he thought as he passed a slightly open door, beyond which the two men were ageing. Something about a coffee machine...? Alex didn't pause. He was now on high alert, knowing that he had guards behind him as well as in front. He tried to keep his eyes everywhere at once.

From behind another door, Alex could hear the steady thwack of knives as they hit the wall. A third door, halfway open, showed six or seven men sitting around a television, drinking beer. The fourth room was quiet. Beyond a fifth...

"...Rider... kill him... bring me back his head...silver..." someone was saying in a dangerously low voice. Alex paused by the closed door, listening as hard as he could. He could only catch snippets of the conversation though. "...the boy... bring him to me..."

There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of chairs being pushed back. Alex's blood ran cold.  
He recognized that voice. Zeljan Kurst.

And from what it sounded like, Kurst was sending a hit squad after his uncle. Which meant that... Ian was no longer working for Scorpia? Had he pissed off his employers? How? What was going on? Was Ian no longer working for the terrorist organization? That could explain why he was no longer there. And why Kurst was so eager to see hum dead. And they were looking for Alex as well. Unless of course, there was some other kid who was a thorn in Kurst's side. That would be great. Unlikely, but utterly fantastic.

Alex only barely managed to get out of the way as ten men marched out of the room, dressed in civilian clothing. He barely breathed as the men passed by, heading in the same direction as he had come.

Alex took his chance and ran. He had obviously gravely underestimated what was going on here, but he wasn't sticking around long enough to run into a death squad. He needed to hide, and then he needed to get out as fast as he could, before Kurst or anyone else found him.

Alex ducked into the first doorway he saw, needing to get out of sight before Kurst left the room. He closed the door shut behind him and looked around.

And found himself staring down the barrels of three assault rifles.

"I was just looking for the bathroom?" Alex quipped. One of them pulled out a radio and called into it. He was speaking in Russian, much to Alex's disappointment. However, any translation Alex could have gotten when the purpose of the Scorpia goon's call became clear. Zeljan Kurst stepped through the doorway behind Alex, a handgun drawn and ready to fire.

"Alex Rider," he said, looking down at the teenager like a spider, ready to bite into a particularly juicy spy.

"Long time no see," Alex said, trying to keep calm and find an escape route. "Did you solve that smoking problem of yours?"

Alex didn't even see Kurst move. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor, the side of his face throbbing from the terrorists blow, looking up at the man who wore the face of the devil.

"Well, its nice to see you too," he said, spitting blood.


	17. Deception

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Deception

**I have an important announcement! After one too many of my lovely reviewers has noticed my war on apostrophes and terrible spelling, I am now officially in the process of looking for a beta reader for the remainder of this story (six or seven chapters, if I'm guessing right). If anyone is interested in the job, or knows someone who would be, I would love to hear from you. **

**In the meantime, that is all. ~InK**

...

In the spy trade, the hardest thing for an agent to do is to see an opening in a fight, and not take it. Sometimes, your cover will call for you to take a dive, or let yourself be beaten up in order to complete the mission.

Alex had spent most of his career as a spy playing the offensive. He had gone undercover plenty of times, but almost every time he had gone out into the field, his cover has lasted all of thirty seconds. He had never needed to play the lost little boy for an extended period of time.

Because he hadn't spent very much time around freelancing agents either, Alex wasn't aware of another simple rule about being a spy: Sometimes your own life makes the best cover possible.

Despite the fact that Alex had never been taught either of these nuances of his trade, staring up at Kurst, he understood their value.

For one thing, he saw the easy opening that Kurst had left him – so wide as to be almost deliberate. It would take less than five seconds to kick out from where he was, knock the man down, and use him as a hostage. He had a knife hidden up the sleeve of his shirt. He could do it.

But Alex didn't take the opening.

Maybe he had realized he was in too deep. Maybe he understood what would happen the second MI6 or Scorpia or any other international terrorist organization caught up to him. Because there was one thing Alex did understand about the world of spies, and that was something Yedit Shalom had taught him; and that was that the world of intelligence functions on gang mentality. Any spy worth his salt without any kind of protection – governmental or otherwise – is fair game.

If Alex left now, it would be open season on his head.

Besides, running now would mean that Scorpia could carry out whatever horrible plans they had come up with. And Alex wouldn't stand by and watch that happen. Not ever.

Instinct told him not to fight back this time. He could do more good without going directly on the offensive. Alex stood up slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements.

"What the hell did you intend to accomplish by coming here?" Kurst asked.

"Well, I _had_ hoped to royally bugger MI6 and watch them burn to the ground," Alex said casually. Kurst's eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

"I don't believe you."

Alex smirked even as his blood ran cold. If he didn't sell this... he was worse than dead. He had no idea what Scorpia did to people who fucked them over on multiple occasions, but he was damn sure that he wouldn't be facing something as easy as a bullet in his heart.

"Believe whatever you want to, I'm still done with MI6. But the bastards seem to have no intention of leaving me alone. So I intend to tender my resignation with a little more... persuasion."

Alex nearly spat the words out of his mouth. The bitterness came easily – the cold, murderous façade was almost no longer an act. He let every wrong MI6 had ever done to him wash over himself like ice water, calling on every frustration, every resentment he had, to sell his story.

"Assuming I believe you, what brought on this change of heart? Because last I recall, you were quite adamant about not joining Scorpia."

"Oh I have no intentions of joining Scorpia," Alex said icily. "You lot are just as bad as MI6 is. As you recall, the last two times you solicited my help, it was a rather thinly veiled attempt to get me to die. And I still owe you for the bullet in my heart."

"So what are you proposing?" Alex could see that against his own will, Kurst was intrigued. He was going to hear him out.

"It just so happens that in this, our goals are the same," Alex said casually. "I want to see MI6 gone. When I'm done, they will all be dead. Every last man, woman, computer file, and drug dog."

"Why do you assume we need your help to make that happen?" Kurst asked.

"Oh, I don't doubt that you could obliterate MI6," Alex said. He was calm, collected. A killer for hire. "Eventually. In the meantime, you would arouse the anger of every governmental agency of the western world, as well as that of MI6's underground contacts. You would lose a lot of business, and waste a hell of a lot of resources, all for the sake of revenge. I, on the other hand, could make it happen without the fuss. My way, even when the government appoints a new intelligence committee, they wouldn't have one iota of data to start working from. They would be easily to infiltrate and corrupt, and Scorpia would be able to hold its head high, with the source of several their debilitating defeats entirely emasculated."

"And what would you expect from Scorpia in return for your miraculous ability to rid us of MI6?"

"You leave me alone," Alex answered. "You stop sending snipers after me. You stop trying to kidnap me, and unless I'm directly working against your interests, you stop fucking up my jobs."

Kurst appeared to consider Alex's proposal for a moment. Alex didn't let himself feel afraid. He had chosen to take on the persona of a much darker version of himself – someone with nothing to lose, and one hell of a plan for revenge. He wouldn't be afraid of a few goons with guns.

"All I want to is for us not to get in each other's way," Alex said. "You let me help you, you can watch the fireworks with me. This can be a profitable, professional relationship."

There was another long moment of silence during which Alex wasn't sure whether Kurst was going to have him shot, or welcome him on board.

"I've just remembered Alex," Kurst said, brightening considerably as he broke the silence. "The source of Scorpia's debilitating defeats was not MI6, but yourself. What would stop me from handing you over to the board, and having them make a public lesson out of your defiance?"

Alex nearly lost it then. He very nearly ran for it. Every fiber of his being was telling him to run. Instead, he smirked, and stared right into Kurst's eyes.

"Oh I'm bloody annoying, I'll give you that. But who hired me? Who's the reason I even became a spy? Who kept sending me after you and your projects? If I had my choice, I'd never have gotten into bed with those wankers at MI6. Now, you _could_ torture and kill me, and make Scorpia look oh so badass for destroying a teenger. Satisfying though I imagine that might be, think about the message you would send by organizing the fall of MI6 - at the hands of the teenager they considered to be their most deadly weapon?"

Kurst watched Alex carefully. Alex knew the man was looking for any sign that he might be lying. Alex also knew that none of the signs of deception that Kurst would be looking for were present.

There was a part of him that deep down, _did _want to watch MI6 burn; that wanted to see the foundations torn from beneath their feet, and see every last agent shot one by one. The part of him that he had suppressed for years was the part that was speaking now.

For now, he could ignore his conscience and throw all caution to the wind in order to stop Scorpia.

That was worth any cost, even that of his soul. Even knowing that, Alex's fingers twitched towards the knife he had hidden. It was the slightest movement, but he didn't go for the weapon.

Vaguely, Alex wondered if this was how his father had felt getting into bed with Scorpia.

"I will speak to my colleagues about your... proposal," Kurst said quietly. "In the meantime, I would like to make sure that you don't get into any trouble."

"Hey, while you're talking to your friends, one of you should ask one of your informants at MI6 what happened after you lot fled the scene back at that warehouse in Boston," Alex said. His record would speak for itself – as would the fact that would inevitably come up, that he had killed MI6 agents. Several of them actually, while aboard Felix Dawn's ship.

"These men will take you to our... accommodations, where you will stay until we decide to either accept your proposal, or put a bullet in your head," Kurst said. He barked an order in Russian over his shoulder as he left, and two of the armed men behind Alex took him firmly by the arms.

Alex didn't resist, didn't fight back, even though he could have. He could have taken out all three men and run for it.

But he wanted to know what was going on once and for all. And he had to stop it.

No matter the cost.

_MI6 will really think I'm a traitor when they hear about this, _Alex thought glumly as the three men stopped outside a door. There was a box to the side with numbers and letters, where a code could be entered. Alex tried to follow the man's hands as he typed in the password, but he was far too fast.

Alex was surprised when the door swung open to reveal a large room that looked nothing like a prison cell. Indeed, it looked more like a barracks than anything.

Alex quickly took in the details of the room.

Two rows of bunk beds, extending down a very long room that was almost a hallway in and of itself. There were several men and women lounging about; cleaning guns, sharpening knives, talking quietly, or just watching T.V. Alex tried not to look too shocked. He had expected to be locked up.

One of the armed men steered him to a bunk near the end.

"This is yours," he said, in heavily accented English. "Bathroom's there-" he pointed to a door to the right, "mess in there-" he pointed to an open doorway on the left through which Alex could see rows of tables, and a kitchen.

With that, Alex was left on his own. A few of the agents had looked up when he entered, but they had quickly gone back to what they were going. One exception was the woman – possibly in her thirties, not a single grey hair among her jet black pixie cut, right handed, carrying two guns that Alex could immediately identify (one at her ankle, one at her hip), and a third under her pillow – that was sitting on the lower bunk next to his.

She was leaned back against the wall, sharpening a knife with studied precision. Alex didn't doubt she knew how to use it.

"Aren't you a little young?" she asked.

"I'm older than I look," Alex said in response. The woman shrugged, and turned her attention back to her knife, methodically sharpening it.

Watching her reminded Alex that he was still armed. Had it been oversight on Kurst's side? The Scorpia board member could hardly have missed the knife Alex was carrying. Was this a sign of good faith then?

Alex didn't mean to fall asleep. He really didn't. But he must have, because the next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake by two men with guns drawn.

Wordlessly, Alex followed them back out of the barracks, and into the hallway. After about half a minute of walking, the two armed guards stopped outside one of the doors. If Alex hadn't seen the brass number on this door, he might have wondered how they could so expertly find their way around.

One of them entered the password in the keyboard next to the door, and it swung open when Alex twisted the handle. He stepped forward into the room. It housed a conference table, around which four men were seated.

Dr. Three, Levi Kroll, Zeljan Kurst, and Mr. Mikato regarded him with a mixture of interest and intense hatred.

Alex was vaguely aware that he was currently standing in the presence of four of the most dangerous men in the entire world. Remembering what he had seen these people do, he very nearly decided to take his chances running for it.

_I'm done running, _Alex thought bitterly. Refusing to act intimidated, he strolled forward and took the seat at the opposite side of the table, trying to look as comfortable as possible. Three's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

"So I have a question for you lot," Alex said, deciding to take the bull by the horns. He wasn't sure if he was about to be shot or not, but at the very least, if he survived this, he would have the satisfaction of having gotten one over on some of the downright scariest people he had ever heard of. "Drugging my uncle to try and hide your hand in all this – was that a really bad mistake, or are you just stupid?"

The four men stared. It wasn't like Alex had struck them speechless, it was just that they – and Alex – couldn't really believe that he had this kind of kahones.

"Because I'm sixteen, and even I know that it was sloppy. Haven't you _seen _people suffering from addiction? Because I have, and they're hardly reliable assets."

"Did you have a point to make, Mr. Rider?" Three asked spitefully. Alex smiled.

"My point, Dr. Three, was that I want MI6 dead and gone," he said. "And I was going to sit back and let you handle it. But you're doing a bloody poor job at it."

"The last time we spoke, I believe I recall you using the phrase 'bloody bastards,' to describe Scorpia," Kroll said, sounding more amused than not.

"Things change," Alex said.

"Indeed," Three replied. "Zeljan has informed us of your offer. I can assure you, we do not need the help of a teenager."

"Really?" Alex asked, very interested. "So you have a foolproof way to ensure that all of MI6's data dies with them, detailed schematics of the Royal and General, and a list of all their employees to make sure you finish the job? You're contingency plans to deal with any kind of protection MI6 might have?"

"Do you?"

The smirk that spread across Alex's face _felt _evil.

"I can get all that," he replied.

"Any you haven't already because..."

"Because I don't have the kind of equipment I would need to get that kind of intel off MI6;s computers, or a bloody army, and it would take me too long to hit everyone on that list at once," Alex said, as if he were talking to three year olds. His heart was racing, and he was scared as hell. But he had to sell this. He had to. His life – and hundreds of others – depended on it.

"If I went at it alone, MI6 would realize their agents were being targeted, and relocate them under different aliases and with greater protection, and I would never find them. Now, thanks to my uncle, you happen to _have _a bloody army. Let me get that information, and you can hit every person on that list at the same time. Every last one. MI6 would fall, good riddance to the blighters, and we can go our separate ways. I also see this as a rather unique opportunity to ensure that Scorpia doesn't try to put another bullet in me."

The four board members stared at him for a moment.

"I see," Three said. He was sounding less hostile, and more contemplative. "And how would we be able to ensure that you don't double cross us, as you already have?"

"Aw, you don't trust me?" Alex said, feigning his offense. None of the board members looked amused.

"Well, if I fail, or if I don't follow through, you know where my guardian is," Alex said, hating himself for every word coming out of his mouth. The smile slid from his face, and he let the joking, uncaring façade fall away. He glared at the board members, totally unaware that they were seeing not Alex, but John Rider, when they looked at him.

"But if you so much as _touch _her before I commit any clear transgressions, trust me on this, when I'm done with MI6, Scorpia will be next. And that might not be much of a threat on its own, but I also know who your enemies are. And they aren't the kind of people you laugh at when they threaten you."

Alex let the icy anger be replaced by his cheerful grin again.

"But I'm sure we won't have any problems of that sort," he said. "After all, we all want the same thing."

Kroll was chuckling to himself. The man looked left and right, meeting the eyes of each of his fellow board members. Each one nodded slightly, except Three, who was still looking at Alex suspiciously. Finally, Kroll looked back to the teenager.

"Shall we call it a week then?" he asked. "To gather your information and then report back to us? We'll give you exactly one hundred and sixty eight hours from the moment you leave this compound to gather this intelligence for us. If you fail, well, Miss Starbright can pay the price."

"Fantastic," Alex said. "It's a deal gentlemen."

"You can see our specialist for the kind of equipment you will need for this job," Kroll added as Alex stood.

The teenager was almost at the door before Three called out to Alex.

"How exactly do you plan on doing this, Rider?"

Alex didn't turn around as he replied.

"I'm going to walk straight through the front door, and ask very nicely," he said quietly. The sarcasm was barely detectable in his response.

And with that he pulled open the door and let himself out. Glancing left and right, Alex saw no immediate threats, and he collapsed against the wall, feeling drained as hell. His heart was beating like a goddamn drum, pounding a violent tattoo against his ribs.

"Oh god," he whispered, sliding down to the ground.

_I just lied to a room full of merciless killers, _Alex though desperately. _I'm dead. I'm so dead..._

He couldn't believe what he had just done. He wasn't sure if he was more shocked that he had it in him to play some of the most dangerous people in the world, or that they had actually believed him.

What the fuck had he been thinking? How the hell was he going to follow through with this? He had gotten himself in far too deep. He needed to get out _now, _give himself up to MI6, and hope that they could put Jack in protective custody before Scorpia got her.

_No. _

Alex surprised himself by the force of his response.

_I won't owe MI6 anything, _he told himself sternly. _Get it together. Yeah, I just volunteered to be the lynch pin in Scorpia's plans to destroy MI6, but since everything depends on me, I get to control what their next move will be. And if I know where Scorpia is going to be... _

_I can destroy them. But how could I possible do that? I don't have a bloody army! _

_...But I do know someone who does._

Alex felt his heart leap right out of his chest. He couldn't stop the genuine grin from spreading across his entire face.

It was one last, desperate shot.

It was his only shot.

_Isn't it always? _Alex thought.

Alex pulled himself together. He had to focus. If he was going to make this happen, he needed the tools Scorpia had to offer.

It looked like he was going to be doing a little breaking and entering at the Royal and General.

**...**

**Guys: I just wrote an entire chapter from one POV. It's a miracle!**


	18. Breaking and Entering

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Breaking and Entering

**Ta... da?**

**ALEX: What, so you're a fucking magician now?**

**ME: * I am TOTALLY not hearing voices in my head right now. ***

**And by the way, aren't you all so proud of me for being so on top of my updates? Don't you think you should review and say so? XD Anywhat, this is also one of my first all-action chapters for a while, AND it's very long. This was actually my most favorite chapter to write, ever. * beams with pride as Alex glares at her * Review and tell me how you like it!**

**To all my anon reviewers, thank you so much! You guys rule! I wish you would sign in, if you are members though, because I try and reply personally to every review I get, and I can't do that for you. =( All of you guys are so awesome! A huge thank you to my signed in reviewers too!**

**If any of my readers get both of the oblique, geeky references that I make in this chapter, you have my undying love. **

...

_Monk: Okay, for the record, what we just did..._

_Benjy Fleming: Breaking and entering?_

_Monk: Yeah. It's wrong. Don't do it._

...

After all this time, it felt weird to be back at the Royal and General. He knew that for all the cameras placed around the building, he wouldn't be recognized – wearing sunglasses, and letting his black hair hang loose around his face, he seriously doubted that anyone would associate him directly with Alex Rider. Casually, he took another sip of his soda, and took note of the third change of guard he had seen that morning.

Alex stood, stretched, and put his notebook into his backpack, pulling out the new camera he had bought two days ago, after leaving Scorpia's secret hideout behind. He snapped four pictures, picking up the cameras outside the bank. Over the course of the last few days, he had been observing the bank, getting ready for his big break –in.

No big deal, really, Alex had just made a bargain that involved breaking into one of the most powerful intelligence agencies in the world, and stealing a list of all their operatives. Easy as eating a pie.

Biting back the sarcastic bitterness, Alex went back to his surveillance job. He needed to find some kind of weakness in MI6's security. Aside from the two very obvious cameras, clearly meant to prove to the public that yes, this was actually a bank, Alex saw one hidden in a plant hanging from one of the windows, and another concealed on the roof. There were seven more on the block facing the Royal and General.

Alex also counted five shifts of ten men and women who worked on a revolving schedule, all of them in civilian clothes, blending in to the crowd (except for the nighttime watch drew, who patrolled the area in black Kevlar). They worked in teams of two, diving the shift into even smaller segments. Every pair spent about half an hour in their patrol area, no more, so as not to raise suspicion.

You wouldn't have seen them if you weren't looking for them, and even then, Alex wouldn't have been fully sure about one of the women if he hadn't seen her here every morning since he had been sitting watch. Alex's own experience spoke to the kind of security he would meet with a frontal assault.

_No use trying to walk in through the front door, not that I thought that that would actually work, _he thought, amused. Too bad, it would have been fun to try.

Looking like he didn't have a care in the world, he wandered down the street from the café he had been sitting at. Trying to look as innocuous as possible, he ducked into the alley behind the bank. For all that he knew that security would be tough to get past, Alex was pretty surprised that they hadn't noticed that the same teenager was hanging around the bank for a few days straight.

Here, Alex counted only four cameras all told. There was also a garage in back, though Alex knew from watching carefully that there were heat sensors and metal detectors in that doorway, as well as five guards waiting inside. He didn't want to have to be noticed before he needed to be.

Alex considered that question for a few minutes, walking through the alley without so much as looking up. He didn't need to rouse any suspicions.

Hours later, while sitting alone in his hotel room, Alex was still trying to make up his mind.

Option number one: Wait for the middle of the morning, when the block would be busiest. Make the biggest possible distraction, and then go in.

On the plus side, MI6 would be reluctant to pull out the big guns. On the not so plus side, he would never be able to get away unseen. And if things did go shitfaced, he would have civilian casualties on his hands.

There was also no way MI6 would leave the kind of information he was looking for just lying around. He didn't know enough about crisis protocol to be comfortable inducing a crisis. There were two many unknowns in that equation for him to have a successful break in.

So that was out.

Option number two: Go in wee hours of the morning, at the very end of the graveyard shift, and go in through the back. He could induce a distraction (not a full blown crisis, but something where he could be sure that he could get a whole bunch of agents away from the back of the building). Get rid of the cameras, blast through the wall, and move in before anyone would be any the wiser. It would just be a matter of getting the information and getting out before he was spotted.

Alex liked option number two.

However, he also knew that he wasn't getting out unscathed. As easy as it was to say 'get out without getting spotted,' Alex doubted he could pull that off. All he _could _do was stall until he was seen, so that he could get away _mostly _unscathed.

He considered the duffel bag of supplies Scorpia had left him with when they had parted ways. Most important among these was the thumb drive they had given him, containing with three terabytes of space. He had guns – most of which only shot rubber bullets and tranqs. Alex didn't care to actually shoot anyone. This would be a simple operation – he had enough blood on his hands. This was about winning his freedom, not destroying MI6.

He also had explosives. Alex had nearly rejected that bag, but he had reconsidered. They would be useful getting into the building. And besides, there was nothing wrong with a bit of firepower.

_It's their own fault really, for pairing we up with Yedit, _Alex thought with a smirk.

Alex set up his supplies carefully, planning out his assault on a major intelligence agency.

As well prepared as he was, given the circumstances, there were a few major snags in Alex's plan. First, he had no idea where the information was going to be. He could spend hours wandering around in the Royal and General.

He did have a contingency plan for that though. Alex handled the small metal case Scorpia had left with him with considerable distaste.

That case contained five syringes of Sodium Thiopental. Alex was going to have to drug an agent with top-secret clearance. Probably more than one, since Alex doubted the first person he asked would know.

The second was that he had no idea what kind of security MI6 would have.

But neither of those problems would be solved by waiting any longer. So he was just going to have to suck it up and deal with it.

_At the very worst case scenario, I can leave without the intel,_ Alex thought, calming himself. Blunt had once told him that making things up from scratch was far more difficult than fudging the truth. Alex knew that he couldn't possibly create an entire list of MI6 operatives. But if it came down to being captured by his former employers or giving that his best go, he knew which option he would pick.

Not that he actually believed MI6 would let him get away again.

Alex tried to nap, and to his own incredulity, he actually managed to get to sleep. He awoke without nightmares, to the sound of his blaring alarm clock. It was one in the morning.

Time to get ready.

Alex pulled on the clothes Scorpia had given him. Both the cargo banks and the black shirt were bulletproof, same as the Jersey Smithers had gotten for him when he had gone up against Damian Cray a lifetime ago.

Alex had noticed during his surveillance that most of the agents wore suits. So he had used the money from Yedit's flat to buy a full, professional looking suit that he wore over the shirt. He was loathe to leave the cargo pants behind, considering the extra protection they would offer him, but there was no way they would fit under the suit. And the suit was going to be essential – he needed to look like one of the agents.

A pair of sunglasses and an earwig that served the purpose of shorting out any communications within the building if he could connect it to a powerful enough circuit completed the image. Alex stood in front of the mirror. The bulletproof shirt was invisible under the impeccable suit, and he really looked the part. Alex put on a large black trench coat over the whole thing, and lifted up his duffel bad of supplies.

He double and triple checked the weapons on his body – knives at his wrists left shin, a gun at his hip and ankle. They were his last defense – his real weapons would be entirely non-lethal, like the pistol in his bag that shot rubber bullets. The gun he was carrying on his hip was actually a tranquillizer. He wouldn't be responsible for any deaths if he could manage it.

Finally, he was ready to go.

Alex hopped on his bike and rode through the near empty streets. It was two-ten in the morning. His absurd thieving operation was going to start at two-fifteen, at the very end of the graveyard shift.

"Lets do this," Alex muttered grimly as he dismounted his bike a block away from the royal and general. He walked the rest of the way, pausing when he stood in front of the bank. He slid an envelope into the mail slot, and walked away quickly, turning into the alley.

He pulled up the collar of the trench coat, and turned into it, face turned the side.

Four shots rang out. He heard the shattering of glass that told him his instinctual marksmanship had been perfect. He had knocked out all four cameras.

Heart racing, Alex ran forward. He pressed the detonator in his pocket, and winced as he heard the explosion from the front of the building. It was engineered to be loud and full of smoke, but it was relatively harmless. The idea was to draw attention to that side of the building, not have people running away.

He pulled the chain of explosives from his bag and set them up as quickly as he felt comfortable. He was, after all, handling deadly weapons.

The theory behind a shaped charge is extremely simple. Direct the blast where you want it to go, and you can blow out a certain section of wall without getting blown away yourself.

Alex pressed the second detonator once he was far enough away, and watched as the wall crumbled with a bang. Alex threw a smoke grenade and a flash-bang into the hole and let them go off before he entered. He pulled off the trench coat and left it by the door, with the now empty duffle bag, knowing no cameras could see him.

Now, he hastened through the building, one hand on what looked like a Bluetooth in his ear. As far as anyone else in the building was concerned, he was an agent taking orders from his superior officers. He carried the pistol with tranquilizer darts in one hand, the suitcase containing his flash drive, gun with rubber bullets, and the case with the vials of Sodium Thiopental in the other.

He was in.

The hardest part was yet to come. Alex passed several agents running towards the front and back doors of the building, trying to run damage control and figure out where the intruder was. An alarm was blaring overhead.

_Yeah yeah, _Alex thought, annoyed. _Come and catch me if you can!_

Alex took the stairs up two floors, where he found an agent wandering around on his own. Alex snuck up behind him, vial of drugs in hand. Without thinking – because if he stopped to think, he would just run away – Alex jumped the man from behind, and stabbed him in the neck with the needle, making sure to grab his Bluetooth device in the process The agent lashed out, but Alex slammed his head into a wall and threw him to the ground, letting the agent see his gun.

"Where does MI6 store its personnel files?" Alex asked.

"Don't... know..."

"Don't play coy. I only need my hand to slip two quarters of an inch," Alex let his voice gloss over with dark anger. He directed the gun at the man's leg. "The bullet will sever your femoral artery. You'll bleed out in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. With all the chaos going on downstairs, it's likely you won't be noticed until long after that, and you can't call for help." Alex waved the headset in front of the man.

"Top floor, that's... all I know, I swear!"

"Thanks, you've been great!" Alex said brightly. A blow to the man's head knocked him out cold.

He would only be out for a few minutes though, and Alex knew his search had less and less of a chance of success the longer he stayed in the building.

Quickly as possible, he made his way back to the stairwell. He passed several agents running downstairs, but none of them questioned him.

Out of breath, panting, and wishing MI6 could maybe keep their files somewhere easier to steal, Alex arrived on the top floor of the Royal and General.

"Stop right there!"

Alex looked up to meet the eyes of five agents, all of them with their guns drawn.

Calmly, Alex registered that he had been tricked. The man must have had a cell phone. Alex cursed himself for being an idiot. And even though he was terrified, he put up his hands in a confused surrender.

"I don't know what you're on about," he said, trying to sound as uncertain as possible. "I was only hired last week, I got lost on my way to the personnel department."

The man who had spoken lowered his gun.

"Jesus, another tech geek," he growled. "Newbie, do you _want _to get shot? You do know there's an intruder running around?"

Alex shrugged, trying to look embarrassed. The man in charge snorted.

"Henderson, get this kid back to his cubicle, the rest of you, come on, the intruder must have known we were waiting for him."

Alex let the burly Henderson escort him two floors down.

"Which office did you say you worked in?" Henderson asked suspiciously.

Alex didn't bother answering. He swung around and fired. The man didn't even call out, he just dropped to the floor.

Ignoring him, Alex turned to the door they had stopped in front of. It had a biometric scanning system.

Alex grabbed the man's arm, scanning his hand on the panel. A hole in the wall opened, exposing a keyboard.

Using phosphorescent powder that he dusted onto the board, Alex figured out which keys had been pressed most recently.

Alex plugged the letters into the anagram scrambler on his iphone, and had to fight the urge to giggle as he entered the code.

The guy upstairs hadn't been joking about tech geeks – the password for the door was 'LEMON DROPS.'

Alex pushed the door open, gun drawn. There were two men inside – Alex fired twice without hesitation, and both went down like lightweights. After a moment of consideration, Alex pulled Henderson into the room, leaving the hallway clear.

Alex quickly pushed one of them out of the way, and shoved the flash drive into the USB port at the side of the computer.

Alex had debated with himself how he was going to get the information he needed. He was after all, only looking for one specific list of names. He doubted that it would be in a conveniently labeled folder, but he also knew that MI6 was going to have to have that information put together _somewhere. _

In the end, the point was moot. There was nothing on the computer. Nothing at all. Alex stared at the empty list under the hard drive icon. He had expected encrypted files, long lists of numbers, password encoded files, but not nothing.

_So all this was for _nothing? Alex thought desperately. He stared at the screen for about half a minute, freaking out, before inspiration struck.

On the tab to the left of the list of data saved to the hard drive, there was a grouping entitled 'DEVICES.' There were three icons underneath it. Macintosh HD, Firefox, and 010011010100100100110110. Alex had no idea what the binary coding meant, but he was reasonably sure that that was what he was looking for.

Despite the fact that Alex had spent very little time at school while in the employ of a certain spy agency, he had been around for orientation at Brooklands this year.

And that meant that like every other student who had to suffer through an hour and a half speech about school policies and student responsibility, he also knew that Brooklands had officially started using Cloud Space to keep track of all its files, so that there was more room on the school computers for students to save projects and documents. Something about students taking on a more active roll in using modern technology.

The idea behind Cloud Space is very simple. You have a storage database – or several – with twenty times the kind of memory you could get on most computers. Using a control node, any computers keyed in to that chain of databases can access that information.

Alex stared at the files that were listed in front of him. This was more like what he had been expecting. Whoever had signed on before him had obviously used some sort of pass key to decrypt the files that they were working on. Alex thanked his lucky stars.

Working fast, knowing that he was working on a clock that was steadily ticking down, he typed in his own name to the search bar, hoping that that would lead him to the personell files.

Nothing came up.

Apparently, he was top secret enough for his name not to be able to appear on a random search. Alex bit his lip, not sure whether or not he was flattered or annoyed, and then rethought his strategy. He typed in another name; 'Ben Daniels.'

This time, several files came up. The biggest one was over one and a half terabytes worth of storage. Alex clicked it open – it was all encrypted, despite the pass key that had decoded the file names. Alex wouldn't even be able to get the address of the janitorial staff with this list.

Biting his lip, Alex glanced at the door – MI6 could have agents here in seconds – he copied the file onto the flash drive. It was going to take a bit.

_How the hell was he going to set up a trap for Scorpia if he had no time to decode and alter this information? _Alex wondered. He had been hoping to have Yassen, Zaaiman, and the creepy Australian take out Scorpia's army while they were spread thin going for hundreds of agents at once.

Of course, he didn't need to kill every single agent of Scorpia to get rid of the price on his head, Alex thought. Inspiration struck.

He could always just hand them the board of Scorpia. He would arrange a meet, and arrange for Yassen to crash the party. At the very least, he could promise the renegades control over Scorpia. They would owe Alex for their place in power, and even if there was anyone left who still felt like Alex was unfinished business, it wouldn't matter.

Alex would be officially off Scorpia's hit list.

_Of course, that safety is probably bought by signing up for the spot of public enemy number one with MI6, _Alex thought glumly. Even if he did blackmail MI6 with this information, the second MI6 thought that they could take him without compromising this information, they would do it. He would have to work on that.

The big problem for now was that Alex didn't trust Zaaiman not to double cross him and take the information for himself. As much as he hated MI6, Alex didn't want this kind of information in the hands of someone who would use it for ill purposes. He knew that was playing with fire.

Alex also didn't know how seriously they renegades would take their debt to him once they were in power, and he didn't dare rely on Yassen's protection.

On the other hand, not taking this information left him with no leverage over MI6 – no way to get his former employers off his back. He could make a deal with the renegades from Scorpia to leave him be, but that protection might mean nothing, since he had no intention of joining them.

There were far too many variables in that equation, but Alex still knew it was his best shot. He would work out the kinks later. But for now, he still had a job to do.

The files had finished loading. Alex ejected the memory stick, and stuffed it into his sock. If he were to be caught and searched, he could still have that card.

A full-scale alarm suddenly started blaring.

_Time to go, _Alex thought, having to fight down a new surge of panic that closed around his chest. He glanced at the door, knowing he should leave, but he still had one thing left to do.

Using one of his knives, he pried open the plastic covering for one of the electrical sockets in the room. He peeled away the plastic coating on one of the wires, and twisted the wires for his cell jammer into the plug in. Scorpia had told Alex that communications would be blocked for a two-block radius. He trusted them enough to believe that it would give him about half that.

He stuck his head out the door, and found the floor clear. He closed the door behind him as he moved out into the hallway, trying to look as though he belonged.

That job was made infinitely harder when a stream of armed agents burst out onto the floor. There were far too many for Alex to take on, even with the tranquillizer gun. Alex doubted that his 'little boy lost' routine would work again, but he had to try.

"Identify yourself!" One of the agents snapped.

"Why, what's going on?" Alex asked innocently. "I was just working when this alarm started going off, I figured I should get out of the way..."

The guy in charge rolled his eyes. "Just show us your ID and get to the crisis room," he said, dropping his guard and taking a few steps forward. Big mistake.

Alex launched forward, and moving faster than he had thought possible, he drew the agent's gun and held it to his head.

"Don't try and shoot," Alex said calmly. "Take another step, and he dies."

"Just kill the bastard!" The agent Alex was holding hostage snapped. Alex started moving backwards, towards the stairs at the other end of the hall, dragging his captive with him. The agents were glaring at him, guns raised, but Alex knew that they wouldn't shoot. It looked like he might get out of this in one piece after all...

Alex had gotten almost all the way down the hall when another group of agents appeared in the doorway for that stairwell.

Alex mentally issued a stream of curses that crossed four languages.

"Give it up, or we shoot!"

Inspiration struck like a mallet. Alex had completely forgotten that he still had two flash bang bombs and three smoke grenades on his belt. He just needed the right moment to use them.

Trying to look disgusted with himself, he tossed his captive towards the first group of agents, and went for the actual gun at his ankle. A gun pointed in each direction, Alex waited to make his move.

"Put down your weapons," someone called.

The agent that had spoken, trying not to provoke him. Alex knew that he would wait until he was just close enough before taking him down, guns or not. Fortunately, Alex had the tranq gun trained on him, not the one with real bullets.

Not that he thought he would endear himself to the man by shooting him either way, but Alex didn't want to be responsible for another death. He bit his lip – he wondered what he must look like to these agents. He was running scared, and they probably thought he was about to blow up the building or something.

Bracing himself, Alex dropped the guns, and went for the two flash bangs. He threw them in both directions at the same time, followed by a smoke grenade to each side. Before they even hit the ground, he had ducked to the ground for cover.

The agents in the hall were not as lucky. Yells rang out through the entire hall. Alex barreled through the cluster of agents closest to him. Some of them tried to grab him blindly, but he was too fast, and they were taken by surprise.

Alex's first instinct was to run downstairs, but he knew that he would never make it. Instead, he went up, heading back for the roof. He took a corner too fast and slid down an entire floor, slamming into a wall. He pulled himself to his feet gingerly as he heard minor explosions – doors slamming open in the stairs – and more yelling.

Alex let out a hiss of curses that spanned four languages before he pulled open the nearest door.

...and came face with someone he had never expected to see again. He really had figured Ben Daniels for a dead man.

"Alex?"

Alex froze. At some point, his sunglasses must have fallen off, probably when Alex had needed to ditch the briefcase, not that he had been paying much attention. He had been far more focused on staying alive.

"Ben?" He asked, uncomprehending. The last he had seen the former SAS soldier, the man had been beaten into submission by Scorpia. It was good to see that he was alive – and relatively unharmed.

"You're the intruder," Ben said quietly, a hand on Alex's shoulder. Alex tried to take a step back, but that grip tightened. "What the hell are you doing? What do you think you can prove by doing this?"

"I intend to prove to MI6 that they can't keep using me," Alex said. "And, hopefully, get rid of Scorpia in the process."

"So your plan was to steal top secret intel and just walk out of here?"

Alex didn't get the chance to answer that, because they had been surrounded by agents.

"Alex, don't fight," Ben murmured quietly. "There has to be a better way."

Alex was inventorying every weapon he had on his person, wondering if he had enough firepower to get out of this, and that answer was pathetic (three knives, a smoke grenade, and one block of C4 with a remote detonator, the last of which was more a distraction than a weapon, because Alex wasn't planning on leaving a trail of bodies around him). He hadn't intended to take on every agent in the building! This was just supposed to be a quick thing, in and out.

_I won't be captured by MI6, _Alex told himself bracingly.

"I'm sorry Ben," he said, and kicked him in the groin, hard.

Alex slammed the door into the nose of the first guy to come after him, but not before tossing his last smoke grenade into the stairwell.

He ran like a man possessed. He made it the stairwell on the other side of the building, and climbed the very last set of stairs, breaking out onto the roof.

The chilly night air pulled at his hair and clothes. It had started drizzling slightly. Alex glanced over the ledge, and saw agents massing in the alley, hoping to catch him.

But Alex did have an advantage. The building to the right of the royal and general was about two floors lower than the bank. Alex took a deep breath.

_For Queen and Country, _Alex thought, trying to convince himself that there really was no other way to get off the roof. _For the death of Scorpia. For Ian. For Jack._

It was that last one that finally propelled him forward, pushing him to careen as fast as his feet could carry him towards the edge of a building with something like sixteen stories.

Alex threw himself into the air. For a second, it was like he was hanging in the air, suspended, and he felt the his stomach lurch as he began to fall. It was like BASE jumping all over again, except that he didn't have a parachute to catch him if he fell. After a few seconds, Alex slammed into the roof of the adjoining building. He groaned, but pulled himself back to his feet. He looked behind him at the camera on the Royal and General's side, and gave it a salute, grinning massively, before he set off running again.

He jumped two more buildings before he heard the gun shots.

_Are they mad? They'll expose themselves!_

Alex had reached the end of the block, and had nowhere else to go. He was still ten stories above the ground, and had no way down.

Alex looked over the edge of the building. There weren't any convenient escapes on the side facing the man road. But on the side facing the previous building, there was a fire escape.

_I am going to regret all of this falling tomorrow. I'm not a bloody flying squirrel! _Alex thought with grim good humor as he launched himself over the side of the building. Thankfully, there was no one to see him as he practically fell down each floor of the fire escape, trying to make as little sound as possible (a feat that was pretty much impossible. Alex hit each landing with a metallic crash that he was positive that would bring MI6 agents on the scene).

He dropped to the floor next to a dumpster, thinking that he had never been so glad to be standing on solid ground in his entire life. Well... maybe it would tie with how he felt after the fight with Niles in the hot air balloon, but it was a pretty close call.

Heart racing, his entire body complaining from the abuse he had just put it through, Alex waited, handing onto the wall of the building as if for dear life, as a group of armed agents passed by.

Peering around the corner after them, Alex saw that the coast was clear. He made his break for it. His bike was only a few blocks away, he could still disappear, if he timed this right. Alex planted his last block of C4 on the side of the building. It would give him the distraction he needed to get away properly.

Just as he was straightening up, however, someone grabbed him tightly from behind. Alex didn't think. He grabbed one of the knives at his wrist, and stabbed it into his assailant's shoulder. The man released him, and Alex slammed his elbow into his stomach before running forward, leaving the knife and his assailant behind.

He was down to one weapon. But the agents still couldn't contact each other. That was something, at least. Alex hit the detonator. The air was rent by the minor explosion, and the ground shook. Alex managed to stay on his feet and keep running. He rounded another block, trying to put as much distance between him and MI6 before they figured out that he had been distracting them with the C4.

The only thing Alex could hear was his own ragged breathing, and the desperate pounding of his steps as he ran. He saw his bike, and nearly cried from relief. He grabbed it and leaped on, pedaling for all he was worth.

A group of agents had found him though, and they were firing. Alex saw two black sedans coming around the corner after him.

_What's next, RPG's? _Alex thought bitterly. A bullet whizzed over his head, and he swore, turning his bike down the first street he came across. He leaned low across the handlebars, making himself as small a target as possible, and kept pedaling.

_This is Amsterdam all over again, except it's a lot harder to hide in London streets, _Alex thought grimly. He was hardly out of shape, but his breath was coming in short bursts, and his legs burned from the effort. If he survived, he would be lucky if he could get out of bed tomorrow.

Glancing behind him, Alex saw that the cars were gaining. _Shit. _Alex really wished he hadn't had to leave his gun behind. He was totally exposed, with no way to return MI6's fire. Of course, they probably knew that Alex was down to his last few weapons and getting more desperate by the minute. Alex saw another two Sedans coming up the block in front of him, boxing him in.

A bullet slammed into the pavement right next to him, and Alex swerved erratically, barely managing to stay on the bike and keep it moving. He needed to get out of the open!

Alex got up onto the sidewalk and directed his bike through a pedestrian pathway between an ice cream shop and a tailor's. The cars screeched to a stop, and agents poured out, firing. Alex swerved back and forth, avoiding the bullets in the narrow space of the walkway. One hit him in the shoulder, driving him further forward over the handlebars. For a terrifying moment, Alex hung in the air as his back wheel came off the ground. He was sure that the bike was about to fall over, and that this would be the end.

Alex slumped back against the seat as his bike hit the ground, the side of his bike scraping against the wall. He felt like the walls were closing in on him, leaving him nowhere to hide. He couldn't right his bike, and he was swerving out of control, unable to force the bike to go where he wanted it to.

Alex hissed with relief when he broke out on the other side of the street, and took a sharp turn, taking himself out of the range of the firing agents. He could disappear if he just got out of sight fast enough... He didn't think he could manage any other close escapes – his legs were screaming their protest with every frantic pedal, and he could barely keep control of his careening bike with the arm that wasn't in searing pain from an up close and personal meeting with a bullet. He could barely see for the sweat in his eyes and the rain dripping down his face.

Alex made two more quick turns, riding over curbs and through another alley (skidding in a pool of mud that sprayed all around –and over- him), and he was separated from his bike as he slammed into the ground. Limping and holding his shoulder, he left the bike where it was, and ran another block, at the very end of his endurance.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't been followed, Alex jumped into the first dumpster he saw, confident that he had bought himself enough time that he hadn't been seen.

His heart was pounding like a drum.

He hadn't been seen.

He didn't care if they had seen him, he didn't have anything left in him to keep running. If they caught him now, he would go without a fight. He didn't have any fight left to dish out to any agents that might find him.

His shoulder hurt like all hell. Alex didn't know if the bullet had pierced his skin. If it was, it was definitely going to be infected.

It stunk in the dumpster.

_What the hell have these people been throwing out? _Alex thought, almost amused at himself for even asking. It _was_ a bloody bin.

It was also really dark.  
And cold.

But they hadn't seen him.

Alex shivered, against his own violation. He didn't know when the pounding of his heart had become a shower of rain, slamming against the bin, but he was cold. He was covered in muck and mud and possibly blood, and god knew what else –

He was also alive.

And he had the information he needed.

Alex allowed himself to grin at that, feeling a thrum of victory.

Sure, the information on the memory stick was encoded, but now he had a plan.

So as cold, and as dark, and as smelly it was in this godforsaken bin, in the middle of some dark and filthy alley, Alex was definitely in better shape than he had been a few days ago.

And the longer MI6 was unable to find him, the more likely it was (from their perspective) that he had sold the information. Which meant soon they would have to stop looking for him, and start thinking of what they could offer him to make sure that that 'deal' never went down.

Alex comforted himself with the thought that this would soon be over.

Exhausted, he leaned against the side of the bin, and closed his eyes, settling in for a long and uncomfortable night, waiting for the rain to stop and the sun to come out.

...

**Holy crap! A second consecutive chapter in one POV! It's a miracle!**

**Don't forget to feed the muses on your way out! **


	19. The Wait

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Interlude; The Wait

**Hi everyone! This is a rather short chapter for too long a wait... but like has been hectic, and I haven't had much time to give all my love to you lot. * holds out the chapter like a bouquet of flowers * Sorry?**

**Oooh oooh! I have news! The wonderfully talented Prone2Dementia has agreed to work with me as a beta for the rest of this series. The fact that it has no spelling errors, hyphenation problems, or general abuse of commas or apostrophes is due to her lovely work on this chapter.**

**Have a lovely day (and remember to review! Authors need love too.)!**

...

It was four-thirty in the morning when Alex crawled out of the bin, satisfied that he was (at least for the moment) relatively safe. He hit the ground and groaned. Shit, he hurt. And he still had a long walk ahead of him. Even if he hadn't totaled his bike by crashing it into the ground at top speed, Alex knew that he couldn't use it again. The bike that he once owned had been destroyed by a rather personal meeting with a speeding van earlier that summer. The bike was probably a plant.

_If they knew I was coming, why was I still able to take them by surprise? _Alex wondered.

The answer became immediately apparent. If it was tagged, Smithers had probably done it, and he wasn't necessarily reporting _everything _to Blunt and Jones.

Grimacing, Alex used the bin to pull himself up. His legs barely wanted to support his weight.

Somehow, he moved forward. It was a Herculean effort. Left. Right. Left. Right. Alex kept his pace at a light jog. MI6 would still be looking for him, but they might be less likely to investigate someone who looked like he was only out for a late night run.

In fact, Alex was passed by several black sedans, and saw more than a couple people who were carrying concealed weapons. They couldn't be anyone but MI6.

It was lucky, therefore, that none of them forced a confrontation. Alex didn't let himself exhibit the slightest guilty behavior, though he did have to hide behind a bin in an alley when one of the black sedans drove past, close enough to identify him had he stayed put.

Somehow, Alex made it to his hotel. He barely remembered opening the door and never recalled getting all the way to the bed. He collapsed, still clothed, on top of the covers. He was out the second his head hit the pillow.

The first thing Alex thought when he opened his eyes was that waking up _hurt. _

He was lying in bed in a hotel room, still wearing his ruined clothes. Alex stared at them blankly. He could only vaguely remember what had happened last night after extracting himself from the bin. His flight from his hiding spot was a bit of a blur, half remembered due to a mixture of pain and exhaustion.

Alex pulled himself up and examined his wounds. His legs were bruised and cut, and hurt like a bitch. Alex considered himself lucky that nothing was broken. He wasn't sure if that really was the case, but a positive attitude probably counted for something, right?

He shuffled into the bathroom, where he removed his turtleneck (he had left the suit coat and dress shirt in the bin) to check out the damage that the bullet had done to his shoulder.

The entire region was covered in an ugly black bruise, but the Kevlar shirt seemed to have done the trick. The bullet hadn't even cut his skin.

His entire left forearm looked like it had gone though a meat grinder. It had taken most of the damage when he fell off his bike. His face was also cut up and bruised. Alex knew that he looked like hell.

"Shit," he muttered to himself. He gently cleaned the cuts using mouthwash, wincing as it stung. Scorpia had left him some bandages, kindly enough, and Alex used those to wrap his arm, happy to protect himself from possible infection.

Once his injuries were taken care of, Alex had one more pressing piece of business. He grabbed his second phone and quickly dialed the number for the Motel Six Yassen had been staying at. He had no reason to believe the assassin might still be there, but that was the best lead he had on the Russian, and he had to start there.

The clerk on duty (a young woman who introduced herself as Maggie) told him that the tenant of Yassen's room was still there, and happily agreed to put Alex through after he explained that he was trying to reach his beloved uncle.

"Hello, little Alex," Yassen greeted him.

"Hey, Yassen," Alex replied.

"Have you changed your mind?" Yassen asked.

"No, I haven't," Alex said. "Actually, I was wondering if you would be interested in doing some business."

"I highly doubt that you have somehow acquired the funds to hire me to kill someone for you, and even if you had, I would not take the job. I don't do business with children, if you will recall." Yassen's voice moved between annoyed and amused.

"Good to know," Alex said. "But actually, I was thinking that I have something that you might want."

"And what is that?"

"I can tell you where the entire board of Scorpia will be having lunch together, and I can guarantee you the chance to take all of them out in one move."

"Ah."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Alex wondered if Yassen had hung up on him.

"And what would you want in exchange for this information?"

Alex's heart jumped.

"Two things, actually," he answered, keeping his voice light. "The first – you leave me, my friends, and Jack alone. You and your merry band of brothers will not interfere with me or any of my jobs, unless you are directly affected by what I'm doing. And even then, you don't get to bring my friends and family into whatever matter is at hand."

"And the second?"

"You lot provide me with a cover that is strong enough to hide me from MI6, permanently," Alex answered. "You give me the funds and equipment I need to get out of the country without being found and to stay hidden."

"Am I to take it that you have deicded to enter into the business of spying on your own?" Yassen asked dangerously.

"I don't intend to spend the rest of my life working for MI6," Alex answered honestly. "So, are you guys going to play ball, or am I going to have to do this on my own, as always?"

"I will ask my colleagues," Yassen answered.

"Well, find them fast because this is the kind of information that has a pretty quick expiration date," Alex answered. "Call me back by the end of the day."

He ended the call, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. This was nothing like making a deal with Scorpia. This was... purging, in a way. Perhaps he simply felt better with the knowledge that there was no duplicity in his interaction with the Russian assassin. He was telling the outright truth – and better still, he was reasonably sure that Yassen wouldn't double cross him. Alex didn't know about Yassen's friends though.

He did have one more call to make. Taking a deep breath, Alex grabbed the iPhone Scorpia had supplied him with and dialed the number that Kurst had left him. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

"I have the flash drive," Alex said into the phone. This was Kurst's private line, and there was no doubt that it was the man himself picking answering – or that Kurst knew who had called the line.

"Capital Hotel and Restaurant, five PM tomorrow," Kurst's voice answered. "Destroy the phone."

Alex did so gladly. He dropped it to the ground and smashed it with the heel of his shoe. It shattered right in half, to his satisfaction.

Half an hour later, Alex was on the street again. He had dyed his hair red, and was wearing thick glasses. It was a testament to the many times Alex had changed his appearance that he barely even stared at the boy he saw in the mirror – a teenager who was definitely not Alex Rider, if he was anyone.

Running a hand through his hair, Alex wished he could have his own blonde locks back. He wasn't vain, and he understood the tactical ability of being unrecognizable, but still. He liked who Alex Rider had been.

Whom Alex was turning into - he wasn't quite sure if he liked that person just yet. It was too soon to tell.

Alex considered calling Sabina or Jack. He discounted the idea almost immediately. The strength of his desire to see them was enough to push him away. While MI6 was hunting for his head, he was going to have to leave both of the women in his life alone. They would tell him they didn't care, but Alex did.

In a funk, Alex wandered around. He felt restless – he wanted to be anywhere except his hotel room right now. He needed to be moving.

The soft buzz of the phone nearly made Alex start. He didn't alter his pace, however, knowing that Scorpia would probably have someone watching him, even now. He walked causally into the men's room of the nearest shop (a Starbucks, as it turned out) and took the call.

"Did you make a decision yet?" Alex asked into the phone.

"Yes," Yassen's voice said. "We are in agreement with your terms. Zaaiman, however, insisted that this information is not enough for us to accept all your terms."

"Great," Alex muttered.

"He has a job that he wants you for, in exchange for everything you asked," Yassen said.

Alex considered it. Possible death, with the chance of being able to stay hidden from MI6 forever, weighed against an almost certain death when MI6 sent him out on some absurd mission after they caught him.

It was perhaps the easiest call he had ever made in his life.

"I'm in," Alex said. "The meeting is happening in London, tomorrow, at 5 PM. The Capital Hotel and Restaurant. They'll have people already working in their ranks, sniffing out any spies. If Scorpia catches even a whiff of a trap –"

"Believe it or not, little Alex, I have gone on a great number of missions in my lifetime, many of which were much more dangerous than this."

"Hey, just giving you a heads up," Alex muttered. "Don't be late, yeah?"

"Make sure you destroy this phone," was Yassen's response.

"Believe it or not, this isn't my first mission either," Alex snapped.

His statement was greeted by a dial tone.

Alex crushed the phone under the heel of his foot and flushed it down the toilet.

On the way back, Alex passed by a bookstore. Grinning, he went in and picked up an English-Arabic dictionary with phonetic translations. He would never be literate in Arabic, but he had high hopes that he might be able to converse in it.

Once back at his hotel room, Alex tried to copy the disk onto his hard drive so that he could wipe it without losing the information. If his deal with the renegades fell through, he was going to need that to blackmail MI6 into leaving him alone.

Unfortunately, the file Alex had copied seemed to have something written into its programming so that it could only be downloaded or altered by the original source. He couldn't do anything to it.

_Shit._

He was going to have to play ball with the real memory stick.

_Yassen better as hell come through, _Alex thought. He didn't like having to rely on the assassin to save his ass, but there was nothing that could be done. Sometimes, one person really can't do it all.

It was a sign of his experience that Alex was learning to accept that, while self-reliance was ideal, he was going to have to be able to trust others, at least a little bit.

Alex spent a bit of time pacing like an agitated and caged animal. Finally, worried out of his mind, he went out to buy another suit and dinner. He didn't want to look out of place at his meeting.

Alex tended to his injuries again and went to sleep early.

The next day was sheer torture. Literally.

Alex was doing everything he could not to twiddle his thumbs like a moron. He went for a four-mile run, trying to work off some of his restless energy. It didn't work.

The afternoon wore on.

Alex practiced his kata, running through move after move, smoothly mimicking the natural flow of a fight. He studied the English-Arabic dictionary for a couple of hours and practiced some phrases.

Alex showered, dressed his wounds one final time, and armed himself to the teeth. He hid the thumb drive so that nobody would be able to find it if they frisked him. Alex assumed that Scorpia would find and confiscate the guns strapped to the small of his back and thigh, as well as the knife that was strapped so close to the skin of his right forearm that it wouldn't be noticed unless a person was looking for it. The knife was a distraction for anyone who might be searching him, however. The weapon he was really counting on was in a special pocket on the left inside lapel of his dinner jacket.

Alex admired his appearance one last time, making sure that the weapons wouldn't be easily visible, and looked at the clock again. And again. And again. By the fourth time Alex checked the clock, it was still only two minutes since he had last looked, and he still had an hour and a half before he had to be at the meeting. Alex knew he should be nervous, but he was just really bored. He couldn't believe how mind-numbing this wait was. It was slowly driving him insane.

He checked out of his hotel room and left the duffel bag, with the laptop and most of the cash, in a PO Box he had signed out for himself.

Four-fifteen came around to Alex's immense relief. He took the tube to Knightsbridge and walked the rest of the way to the Capital Hotel and Restaurant.

Alex climbed up the stairs, with a nod to the doorman. With a deep, bracing breath, he straightened his bow tie and stepped inside.

It was show time.

Alex just hoped he survived the curtain call.

...

**~InK**


	20. Hero Complex

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Hero Complex

….

**Hey Loves! Did you miss me? I am most apologetic on that count. About a week and a half ago, my hard drive blew out, and I lost everything. I'm still trying to figure out how much information I'm going to recover. Add that to a vicious battle with my father over my choice of colleges, and my very last debate trip of high school (I kicked ass, in case any of you were wondering), as well as catching the flu twice (once from my brother and once from my roommate on debate) and it's been a busy few weeks.**

**First off, as the final book in the series was released since my last update, I feel I must remind you that this story is ONLY cannon through Crocodile Tears (though, just for the record, who called that Alex's next mission was going to be in Egypt? Yes dearies, twas I!).**

**Finally, I must apologize to my wonderful beta. I have been informed that prone2dementia does not capitalize her name, much like ee cummings. Please note this correction. =) You have her to thank for this chapters lack of misplaced commas, apostrophes, and horrible spelling. **

**Enjoy!**

...

The lobby was gorgeous. It wasn't spacious, but it was tastefully elegant and ornate. Alex wasn't really one for design, but even he could appreciate the work – and funds – that must have gone into the lobby of the Capital Hotel and Restaurant.

Scorpia had left an attendant to wait for him. Alex first recognized her first by the pin on her lapel; it was a scorpion, crafted out of diamonds and sapphires. She inclined her head, and Alex followed her into the dining room, scoping the situation. His senses seemed to be on overdrive, picking up a hundred little details that he might have, under other circumstances, missed.

There was a busboy with a gun at his hip, hidden by his vest. The two cleaning ladies were also hiding weapons, which Alex only noticed by chance when they leaned forward to push a laundry basket forward. A young couple over by the counter was looking especially wary, the woman continually glancing over at him.

Alex hoped that at least some of these people were on the renegade's payroll, or at least not paid well enough to step into a major confrontation between the two factions.

"This way, Mr. Rider," Scorpia's lacky chided Alex when he lagged behind her. There was nothing in her voice but icy professionalism. Alex could almost believe that she wasn't leading him into a death trap. He followed her through the maze of tables in the dining room, keeping a sharp eye out. His heart was pounding like war drums, and it seemed fantastic that nobody could hear it at the tables around them. Alex felt his breath tighten in his chest, but he forced air through his lungs anyway, trying to maintain his composure, and barely succeeding. He had to make sure that Scorpia bought the idea of him as a killer, for at least as long as it took for Yassen and his friends to get in place, if he was going to survive this.

He picked up no more armed personnel, but that could just be because Scorpia's agents were doing a much better job at hiding their weapons.

_This is going to be a bloodbath, _Alex thought, feeling almost ill. The civilians unfortunate enough to be stuck in the middle of this mess were going to be slaughtered when the two parties started shooting.

_I'll just have to make sure it doesn't come to that, _Alex thought stubbornly.

The woman led him to the door of a private dining room, opening it for him. Alex flashed her a Rider smile and stepped inside.

The walls were a soft brown color, though about halfway up the wall, the color stopped, giving way to a long mirror that surrounded the room. The presence of the mirrors made the room seem larger than it was, giving him repeated images of its occupants.

"Hello, Mr. Rider," Levi Kroll greeted him. Alex's eyes flashed from face to face in the room, and felt a surge of relief – all of Scorpia's remaining board members were sitting in this room. Kroll was sitting to the left of Zeljan Kurst, and Dr. Three was on Kurst's right. Next to Three sat an Asian looking black man that Alex knew was Mr. Mikato, though he hadn't had much personal interaction with the man.

Of course, Alex didn't fail to notice that there was also an armed goon in each of the corners. Alex just hoped Yassen knew what he was doing.

"Mr. Kroll." Alex nodded.

"Before you join us, would you mind leaving your weapons behind?" Kurst asked as Alex took a step forward. "It's rather unpleasant to conduct business with a gun within reach."

Alex doubted that any of Scorpia's members were unarmed, but that wasn't the point. He knew they were testing him, trying to see how he would react. If he pushed too hard, they would start asking themselves why he felt the need to have his weapons on him.

"Sure thing," he said lightly. He handed both guns, and the knife strapped to his forearm to the guard standing right by the door.

"If you don't mind," Kurst said it as an order, not a question, and a second guard searched Alex for any other weapons.

He wanted to hold his breath and shut his eyes, waiting for the guard to find his back-up knife, but he didn't. Alex held himself in a neutral, completely relaxed stance, keeping his breathing and pulse as normal as he could. It was a hard won battle, but Alex had to keep up the charade. If he let on that he was nervous, the board members might just up and run.

The guard didn't find anything (good help must be harder to come by than usual, Alex thought), and Alex sat down with the only four men in the world he had no qualms killing.

"So, shall we get down to business?" Alex asked brightly.

"Before we do, I would like to hear the details of your miraculous plan," Three answered. Alex grinned.

"Of course," he said. "When we part here today, you will be in possession of the thumb drive you gave me, which currently has the name and address of every MI6 employee. At noon tomorrow, you lot do your thing – and so on – taking out every employee on MI6's roster. Meanwhile, I will be in the building across the street from the lunch club where the intelligence directors of Britain gather, with a sniper rifle trained on Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones. I do my thing..." Alex grinned as he mimed shooting a sniper rifle at Three, who was across from him. "And then I press the button that will detonate the explosives I have placed next to the foundations of the Royal and General."

Alex looked around at these four men, feeling slightly ill as he outlined his plan. If Yassen didn't come through, hundreds of thousands of people would die. He had to stall for as long as he could. He forced himself to smile as he outlined the mad plan.

The truly frightening thing was that it would work.

If Alex didn't stop the ball he had set in motion from rolling too far, his plan would effectively destroy his country's intelligence force for decades. Alex was holding Britain's future in his hands, as he had so many times before. But he had never been so aware of his ability to destroy or save the world as he was right now.

"Of course, MI6 will have their files backed up somewhere safe – of that I have no doubt. But with nobody left who is intimately familiar with their codes and ciphers... It will be decades before Britain can get its intelligence agency back to functioning level. By teatime tomorrow, you lot will have free reign in Britain, and your revenge. Is that favorable to you, gentlemen?"

The four men exchanged glances.  
"Yes, Mr. Rider, that is quite satisfactory," Mikato said. Alex felt a thrill of fear accomplishment and fear – where the hell was Yassen and his people? What were they waiting for?

"Unfortunately, Mr. Rider, our revenge against MI6 is not satisfactory _enough _for us," Three answered. "The Rider family, and yourself in particular, has caused us a great deal of annoyance and money."

"I see," Alex said, standing. He hadn't seen the guard move behind him, but he sure as hell felt it when the man pushed him back down into the seat, holding him by the shoulders.

"Even if you have truly left MI6, you are too much of a risk – and an embarrassment to us – to be allowed to live."

Alex felt a sinking pit in his stomach.

This was it.

He was going to die.

Everything about these men told him that. Alex saw it in their eyes, their faces, their very posture. These four men were going to kill him.

Alex thought about how many men he had killed or seen die while in the service of MI6. Evil madmen and their henchmen, assassins, and some good people too. He himself had lain on the ground with a bullet through his chest, literally one half-inch away from a grave.

He remembered extended holidays spent hiking, snowboarding, diving, and mountain climbing with his uncle. He remembered long nights spent on homework and a warm and comforting (if infrequent) presence in his life. It hurt to try and reconcile that Ian with the man who had had Alex kidnapped and bought an entire arsenal for Scorpia's personal use.

He thought about Jack. Saturday mornings watching cartoons and cheesy Christmas mornings, take out cooking, and that one incident where Jack had tried to give him advice about dating Sabina.

It hit him, that it was really, really over.

Alex thought about how many times that very thought had run through his mind.

And then he started to laugh.

"Go ahead and kill me then," he choked out. "MI6 will still be after you lot, and they'll send others after me. Scorpia is dying, and you can kill me, but that won't save your crumbling little terrorist agency. And it certainly won't find you the flash drive."

He saw their eyes flash murderously, saw the fist swinging towards his face, but he didn't bother trying to move away from it.

"Arrange my car," Kurst said to one of the guards. He turned to his colleagues. "I will bring the boy to my safehouse and extract the location of the flash drive from him."

Alex was held in place as he watched the four men make their arrangements. He didn't say anything at all – Kurst was going to torture and kill him, and then allow his men to kill god knows how many other people. And it was going to be all Alex's fault. The euphoria had left him as easily as it had come, replaced by grim determination.

He had to do something. If he didn't, millions of people would die. The cost of his failure was, as always, far too high.

_I have to stop this._

A pair of servers with a cart of dishes entered.

"Excellent," Kurst said. "Drug the boy, get him hidden, and let's bring him out."

Alex strained away from the hypodermic needle that was brought out, finally making his bid to escape. He fought against the guard holding him, slamming his elbow backwards and twisting around to break the man's nose with a satisfying crunch.

The sound of a bullet echoed through the room. Alex grabbed the knife from his jacket and slashed at the man holding him, breaking his grim completely. Alex didn't know who had fired the bullet, but as he didn't appear to have been hit, he kept fighting.

Another man jumped Alex from behind. Alex heard the man's rasping breath, and kicked backwards, hitting his target square between his attacker's legs. A howl of pain came from behind him, and Alex was released. Bullets were flying everywhere, but Alex couldn't tell where they were coming from or who they were destined for. He just had to hope that he could keep out of the way.

Before he could even turn around, Kurst's face filled his vision. Alex struck out with his foot, landing a harsh blow into the man's abdomen with a kick meant to double an opponent over and break a few ribs. It landed, but it was too far off center, and Kurst used the momentum against Alex, pushing him off balance. Sprawled on the floor, Alex looked up at Kurst, staring down the muzzle of a Desert Eagle handgun.

There was the sound of a bullet firing.

Kurst fell.

Alex lurched back, trying to gain himself some cover in the corner of the room. There was a bloody fight raging around them.

_That or Scorpia killed them all, _Alex thought bitterly. He looked around, trying to find his opponent.

Kurst was lying on the floor, a bullet in his forehead.

It seemed that the renegades had come.

_About bloody time, _Alex thought.

Alex bent down and grabbed one of the goon's guns, and fired twice. With no small measure of satisfaction, he watched Kroll go down. He turned, wondering where Three had gone, when he felt someone grab him from behind. By jumping back into the fray, he had given up the small measure of cover the wall had given him.

"Come on, Rider," Three hissed at him. Alex fought his grip like a wild animal. His newly acquired gun fell to the ground in a clatter that was lost in the din of the fight.

Absurdly, Alex wasted a moment wondering what was going on outside. Could their fight be heard, or were Scorpia's agents simply cutting through the civilians to get to their leaders?

Gathering all his strength, Alex flipped Three over his head and slammed the man into the table, which broke under the force of Three's fall. In a swift movement, the teenager bent down for his gun, straightened, and fired. He ducked a wayward bullet that whizzed over his head and turned to face another Scorpia agent.

After the last of the board members were killed, the fight was over almost too quickly. Alex brought down another attacker with a slash of his knife, and kicked out at a third, sending him into the path of a bullet. By the time he was looking for another opponent, it was done.

The guards that remained were putting away their guns and congratulating each other. The servers loaded the dead bodies onto their many carts and vanished out the door.

Alex finally spotted Yassen, who made his entrance along with Zaaiman and the Australian.

All three were covered in blood, and it looked like the Australian had taken a bullet somewhere along the way. The fighting must have broken out outside then. Alex wondered how many people were now dead.

_Hail the conquering heroes, _Alex thought sarcastically, wiping blood out of his eyes (he thought it might be Three's, though there was every possibility it was his own) and facing the leaders of the Scorpia renegades.

"You guys sure know how to crash a party," Alex said, panting a little from the exertion. Yassen's eyes met his with an unspoken question. _Are you injured? _Alex shook his head slightly.

"Great timing by the way," Alex added, letting the sarcasm fall heavily off his tongue.

"I wanted to see how far you would allow Kurst to take both of your charades," Zaaiman said dismissively. By now, only the four of them were left in the room. The goons had carted out all the dead bodies. There was blood left on the walls and in pools on the carpet, and a whole half of the table was in ruins from where Alex had thrown Three into it. Other than that, you wouldn't even know that World War III had almost started in this room. "You did very well."

Biting back yet another sarcastic remark, Alex merely met Zaaiman's eyes with a stony glare.

"You have what you wanted," Alex said finally. "I hate to rush business and all, but I believe Yassen mentioned that you wanted additional payment before you were willing to do as I requested."

"That is correct," Zaaiman said, gesturing for Alex to sit down at the table. The Australian and Yassen followed Zaaiman's lead. Alex only hesitated briefly before doing the same.

"We have a job for you," Zaaiman said. "Complete it, and we will offer you the best protection the three of us can bring to bear. Keep in mind: that protection is significant."

"And if I don't?" Alex asked.

"Well, if you carry out the mission and fail, I have little doubt that you will be dead or seriously injured," Yassen said, sounding bored. "If you choose not to carry out the mission, we can part ways here and never see each other again."

Alex wanted to say that he had taken time to think it over, but the truth was that he had already made up his mind.

"What's the job?"

Zaaiman slid a plan folder over the table to the teen. He picked it up. It was heavy – there was a lot of information inside of it.

Alex looked down at the folder in his hands. He didn't open it.

"What's the job?"

"Nothing too strenuous," Zaaiman answered. "In fact, it's right up your alley."

Alex frowned. He had heard those words too many times before.

"What my colleague means to say is that it should be a very familiar task for you," Yassen said. Alex could read the wariness in his voice. "Get in undercover, unleash some controlled destruction, and get out without leaving any evidence."

"Uh huh," Alex said, unconvinced.

"This man owes me quite a bit of money," Zaaiman said. "Well, the three of us, really, because many of our assets were tied up in arms imports for this man. He gave us some quite lucrative business. And then he decided to 'forget' to pay. Your task is simple. Pick a cover identification, which we shall provide background information for. You go in, kill him, and escape before anyone can retaliate."

Alex nodded. An assassination.

It seemed that Scorpia really had succeeded in turning him into a killer.

"Who is he?"

"Nobody the world would miss, I guarantee you," Yassen growled. "If you managed to destroy his entire organization, it would only be a plus."

Alex heard the real animosity there. Curious, he finally opened the folder.

It was like being on the downward slant of a roller coaster. He felt his stomach drop out of the bottom of his chair.

He was staring down at the face of a man who was vaguely familiar to him. He knew that face. He knew it because he had seen it staring up at him from a surveillance photograph that he had been shown in Alan Blunt's office.

_The universe has a fucked up sense of ironic humor, _Alex thought.

The Scorpia renegades wanted him to kill Joseph Kony: international terrorist, leader of an armed militia group that had kidnapped and mutilated tens of thousands of children, self-proclaimed mystic and phony Shaman.

"As I said, Kony owes us a lot of money. His death is worth a great deal to us – just as your freedom is worth a great deal to you."

Alex didn't look up from the photograph. He stared into the eyes of the psychotic killer, and he felt nothing. There wasn't fear, or excitement, or dread.

"I'll do it," he said. He looked up, meeting the eyes of three more killers. Alex was surprised to find that they didn't scare him anymore – like childhood demons. They were specters. They were monsters hiding under his bed. They were wraiths and phantoms in the shadows of his closet.

Alex had spent so much time alone and afraid that he no longer feared to meet the eyes of his demons. There were much scarier monsters than Yassen Gregorovitch out there. One of their names was Joseph Kony.

Alex wasn't a hero. He wasn't a saint, and he certainly didn't want to be. But he did know something.

Each one of the kids that Kony had abducted and trained to be killers was someone else's Sabina. Someone's Tom. Someone's Jack. Best friends and brothers, first loves and sisters. What Kony was doing... that was wrong.

Alex wanted to tell himself that this was his last job. He wanted more than anything else in the world to be able to look down at the photograph of the man he was supposed to kill, and feel secure in the knowledge that this was his very last mission. There weren't words in the English language to describe how much Alex wanted to tell himself that he was doing this because the renegades had agreed to hide him from MI6.

He tried to tell himself that this was the case, but he failed. He failed because as good of a liar as Alex had always been, he knew when he was lying to himself.

Alex knew the truth. He was doing this because it would make the world a better place, and because it meant that there was one less monster under somebody else's bed at the end of the day.

He was doing this because no child should ever have to hold a gun in his hands and point it at another human being. Because Joseph Kony was a psychopath and a murderer, and the sooner he was dead, the better.

And the worst of it was that Alex knew he would do it again, after Kony was put in the ground. He would do it again and again and again, until he was killed or grew too old to carry on the fight.

There would always be monsters like Kony out there. Alex knew, as much as he wanted to run from what he was and what he had to do, that he could never walk away from the path that MI6 had set him on.

"Good," Zaaiman said. "It's settled."

He put a mobile on the table between them.

"We will contact you tomorrow when the plans are settled," he added. "Give some thought as to what undercover identity you will use, and how you will approach Kony."

"MI6 intended for me to go undercover as a child in the LRA," Alex said, not quite sure why he was telling them this. "That would probably be a stupid idea, considering that these children probably have little to no day-to-day contact with their leader, and would have no reason to hang around long enough to get any real information. And while I can speak French fluently, I doubt I could pick up enough Swahili to be able to follow what is going on."

"Make your point," Yassen said.

"Don't give me any cover at all," Alex answered with a smirk, sitting back to watch their expressions. "I will approach the LRA as Alex Rider, the rogue spy come to warn Kony that MI6 is closing in on him. I'll offer my consultation services in getting rid of the British bastards, and wait until I can get close enough to off him. What do you think?"

The Australian chuckled.

"I rather like it," Zaaiman said, smirking. "Kony will not see you as a threat – you are a child. He considers himself a mystic, bordering on a demigod. Pander to his ego enough, and he will see you as a tool to manipulate. And from there..."

Alex smiled. It was a ruthless, mirthless smile that didn't reach his eyes. The smile of a man with a bloody mission.

"From there, it's only a matter of time before the world no longer has to worry about the threat of Joseph Kony."

Alex nodded and stood.

"Well, gentlemen, thanks for lunch," he said cheekily, turning his back on the renegades. He heard the Australian chuckle again.

_Me and my stupid saving people thing, _Alex thought.

...

Alex arrived at the airport at 11:00 PM. Alex's flight was boarding at 12:39. He slipped through security easily, using the fake passport that the Scorpia renegades had given him (and who said having criminals as friends was unhelpful?). His ticket was even legitimately purchased this time.

It was now 12:03 in the morning, and Alex was keeping a very wary eye out. If MI6 caught wind that he was trying to leave the country, after having stolen a flash drive of information that could destroy them... well, he was bloody well fucked. Airport security _did _seem somewhat tighter, though Alex highly doubted even these men in uniform knew what they were looking for.

He could have saved MI6 the bother. He had the flash drive in a _very _safe place right now. As soon as this job was done, he was planning on either sending MI6 back their information as a peace offering, or using it as leverage to remain free.

Alex only had a carry-on bag with some basic essentials. Yassen had assured him that the renegades had a contact in Entebbe, and everything he might need would be provided.

Instead of falling prey to the boredom Alex had expected during his wait, he used this time to sort through everything that had happened. Alex was no longer sure what he wanted from life after this assignment.

On the one hand, all he wanted – all he had ever wanted, a part of him insisted – was to have a normal, peaceful life and not give a shit about terrorists, or rogue agents, or a hidden world of shadows and lies and intrigue.

But another larger part held him back. Spying... Alex didn't know how to describe it. It thrummed in his blood, and it felt _right _to Alex, in a way nothing else did. He would say it was in his very genes, but it was more than that. More than having a father and uncle who were connected to this world, spying was the only thing Alex could do without feeling like he was wasting his time. When he was matching wits with maniacs bent on world domination or dodging bullets, Alex felt fulfilled – like he was doing something important. In comparison, homework was just trivial. It was a waste of time.

Truth be told, Alex couldn't imagine going back to school after this. Sitting in class, trying to avoid the stares and whispers of people who wondered about his scars and bruises and mysterious absences... Alex couldn't do it anymore. He could pretend to be anyone in the world, but he could no longer go back to being a student, and making that who he was.

Like it or not, Alex's adventures had changed him, turned him from a schoolboy into a spy, and there was nothing he could do.

Yet the last weeks had drained Alex considerably. Had it been weeks? Alex no longer knew how many days ago MI6 had taken him from his home and he had been pulled into a mission in Egypt helping Yedit clear her name. He was exhausted.

He didn't have it in him to keep running anymore, and he didn't want to.

Alex bit his lip, looking at the boarding gate and then at his watch. He could walk away. The renegades had already agreed to leave him alone. If he left now, he owed them nothing. He could turn himself in to MI6 now, save himself the trouble.

_No. _Alex's entire being rebelled against that thought.

He wasn't done with spying, not by a long shot.

But he _was _done with being used.

_We're done, MI6 and I, _Alex growled in his head. The words were menacing, even in his thoughts.

What he would do once he was clear of MI6... Alex was going to have to cross that hurdle when he came to it. For now, he would do this job, and earn back his freedom.

Alex felt his entire being relax with the knowledge that he had chosen his course. For better or worse, he had made that decision.

Even if it meant he would be running from MI6 for his entire life...

Well, that was just too bloody bad for the British intelligence agency, because they'd be looking for a very long time.

Alex had remained out of MI6's hands for longer than anyone could have suspected. He knew he wasn't the best in the business. He knew he was still basically green, in terms of his practical knowledge of the field. But he had good instincts, and he was getting better at hiding his tracks every day.

And now he had made some very powerful friends.

Alex wasn't about to let his guard down, but he felt good about his chances of actually getting away now.

A voice over the loudspeaker told Alex that his flight was boarding. He picked up his carry-on and moved to join the line of people waiting to board. He hesitated as he realized that he had a rather unique opportunity on his hands.

It was stupid of course, but Alex couldn't resist the urge to ruffle MI6's feathers. He went into the men's room and pulled a sharpie marker out of his bag once he was locked into one of the cubicles. It was a good thing the entire restroom was empty, so that no one could immediately report him. Alex left the door to the cubicle locked once he was done, and left by sliding underneath the door.

Alex grinned to himself as he rushed to catch the attendant before she closed the gate.

He wondered how airport security would react when they found the little message he had left plastered in big black letters on the bathroom cubicle.

_Alex Rider Was Here!_

_..._

**~InK**


	21. Human Monsters

Bury Your Dead – Human Monsters

**Hi there! No, I've not dropped off the face of the Earth just yet. I've just been super busy – getting ready to go to college now that I've finally been accepted, exams week, and tons of homework… well, its boring for me, the lot of you don't need to sit through this. **

**Anyway, I wanted to give official notice that there will be at most two more chapters in this story. And… lo and behold, there WILL be a sequel (triquel? whatever). I don't have a name for it just yet, but I have it on good authority that it is full of awesomeness. And yes, it will be the last and final arc of what has been an immensely satisfying story for me to write, and I hope has been for you lot to read. **

**Also, this chapter is one of the longer ones… a whopping fourteen pages! Actually, coming in at just about 8.5k, it might be the longest chapter I've written so far... * sniff * I'm so proud of my endless capacity for torturing teenage boys… ;)**

**Oh and as always, I raise my glass to the wonderful prone2dementia, my fantastic beta, who does a wonderful job keeping my abuse of punctuation down to a level where you can actually read what I write. **

**Vindicate my existence and review?**

**…**

Alex's first impression of Uganda was that it was hot. Extremely hot. Oppressively, unbearably, unspeakably hot. The kind of hot that makes you get to your knees and praise god when you finally get into a building with air conditioning. _Speaking of air conditioning_ -

Alex cut off that line of thinking before he could even get started. Again. It was only the twelfth time in the last five minutes that he had mentally ranted about the temperature, and he was even annoying himself with the constant internal complaining.

Somehow, it seemed much hotter than Cairo had been, possibly because the heat was so _heavy. _The humidity was so thick, Alex felt like he was trying to breathe underwater.

The fact that Alex was wearing a suit only made it worse. Alex wondered if Zaaiman was trying to buy his loyalty, or if the South African man was just used to buying the best, because he had checked the label. It was an Armani. Alex considered not wearing it, simply because it would make him stick out like a sore thumb. He then realized that that was exactly what he was trying to do. So with as much good grace as he could muster, Alex donned the beige suit, and the matching shoes (Alex wasn't familiar with the brand, but he bet he could sell one of them to feed any one of the families he passed on the street for a week. Actually, better make that six months).

He had been in Uganda for all of eight hours, most of which had been spent in Entebbe, working out his plans with Yassen's contact, Julius. He had then boarded a private plane registered to some Swiss clothing line (or at least, that's what it would seem to anyone watching).

Alex was now finishing his fifth water bottle of the morning and watching the private plane's decent just outside the village of Lira. He wondered if it was worth trying to brace himself for what was to come. But what could he do? This wasn't a test he could cram for. A glance at the file Yassen had given him told pretty much everything he needed to know. Blunt had not been exaggerating when he told Alex about Kony. He truly was a monster.

The only thing Alex could do was double check his guns, make sure his knives were within easy reach, and stay calm.

When he had been running from MI6, Alex had envisioned himself terrified as he prepared to meet Joseph Kony. Alex didn't know if it was the anticipation getting to him, or if it was just because he was doing this under his own power, but the teenager didn't find himself as frightened as he thought he would be.

He didn't have much more time to dwell on that, because the plane hit the ground with a tremendous shake, and Alex grabbed onto his seat, cursing. His pilot hadn't done much to engender his confidence over this flight, and he was relatively glad to be on the ground again.

He was also glad to be on a mission in a country where many people spoke English or French. Alex's knowledge spanned a great many languages, but he wasn't ever going to accept another mission in a country where he couldn't speak the language. Ever. His time in Egypt had been nothing short of hellish.

Alex shoved the file back into his bag. He hadn't opened it at all during the flight, just stared at the manila covering. Alex took a deep breath and put on his sunglasses - designer brand, of course. He settled back into the ice-cold spy he had created to fool Scorpia. That was a good place to start. Alex already knew he would have to tone the persona down a bit though. With Kony, he didn't want to seem like a threat - just the opposite. If Kony thought he could manipulate Alex, he would let Alex get close enough to take his shot.

Still, the image gave him something to work with as he left the plane. He held himself the same way - rigidly straight posture, eyes forward, his entire body moving with intent. He had packed away everything he needed in his duffel, which he slung over one shoulder now. He stepped out into the unbearable heat and immediately felt himself start to sweat. He ignored this in favor of examining his surroundings.

Alex wasn't really sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn't this. Lira was less of a village and more of a town. It wasn't huge, but it was more of a central hub than Alex had thought it would be. He moved through the streets deftly. Here and there, he could see the signs of the influx of refugees - several families sharing a pot of soup, tents erected where space could be found… Alex could also read the wary, hardened look that many in the town wore - the look of someone who has lost everything, and then some.

Alex knew it because he had seen it in his own eyes.

The teenage spy forced himself to look away. He was attracting a bit of attention, and he still had to get where he was going. The man he wanted to talk to was Simon, a man operating out of Blue Moon Bar and Restaurant here in Lira. From what Alex understood, he was little better than a thug. Most technically, he was a gangster. And he was working with Kony.

He followed names and address until he turned onto Ireda Road, and found the Blue Moon. The address had been in the file Alex now had in his backpack.

Alex pushed open the door and stepped in. The interior of the bar was dim and empty - waiting for customers, Alex guessed. He strolled up to the bar, where a young boy - Alex guessed he was ten or twelve - was shelving bottles.

"Is Simon around?" Alex asked. The kid looked up, startled, and fled at the sight of the older boy. Alex didn't bother sighing - he just grabbed a seat at the bar and waited.

"Who are you?" the voice came from behind Alex, tinted with a French accent. Alex turned and found himself face to face with the man he presumed was Simon. He must have been hovering around.

"Are you Simon?" Alex asked, eyeing the man. He was about two heads taller than Alex himself, with short-cropped hair. A scar cutting from his temple to his nose marred the skin of his face, which was the color of dark coffee. He was also incredibly large, not just in terms of height, but girth. The man had enough muscle for at least two men.

"That depends; who are you?" the man repeated.

"My name is Alex Rider," Alex said. "And I'm looking for Simon Girard. If that's you, then I have some information you might want. If you're not Simon, you can bloody well sod off and find him for me."

The man seemed to swell from Alex's dismissive attitude, and a sneer pulled at the man's lip. "I am Simon, but what makes you think that you have any information that might interest me?"

Alex grinned a wide, conspiratorial grin, and leaned in close to Simon, as if sharing a joke.

"Well, it's not information you yourself might find valuable, but from what I understand, this particular tidbit would very much interest a man by the name of Joseph Kony."

Alex paused deliberately, letting that sink in. What he didn't expect was for Simon's face to go from dismissive to frightened in over a second, and for him to cuff Alex on the side of his head.

"Be quiet, boy!" Simon hissed, and grabbed Alex's arm. Alex forced himself to stay calm as he was pulled along, into a back room of the bar. "That's not the kind of name you throw out in the street!"

Alex shrugged, not particularly impressed.

"So will you hear me now?" he asked.

Simon considered the teenager, seeming to weigh his options.

"A moment," he growled.

Simon turned away, walking back into the main room, motioning for Alex to stay where he was. As soon as Simon was out of the room, Alex put his ear to the door and listened. Simon appeared to have pulled out a phone, for he was talking in rapid fire French. From what Alex could tell, he was trying to verify exactly who Alex was. There was a long silence. Simon swore loudly in French and then snapped the phone shut. He barreled back into the back room and slammed Alex up against the wall.

"What do you mean by coming here?" Simon snarled right into Alex's face. Alex felt his heart pounding mercilessly, but he let himself be manhandled.

"What are you on about?"

"What do you mean by coming here as MI6?" Simon demanded, throwing Alex to the ground. "Get the hell out of my bar!"

"I'm not MI6," Alex said, not moving from his spot on the floor. "Not anymore."

Simon kicked Alex in the stomach, hard. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw two massive goons come out of the shadows. He curled up into a ball gasping for breath. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, but Alex knew that if he wanted Simon to lead him to Kony, he was going to have to seem like he wasn't a threat. Sure, he needed to seem competent enough to be taken seriously - but he wanted Simon and Kony secure, not on their guard.

It went on for several minutes. Alex waited it out patiently. He was usually okay about getting injured - after all, even your average football practice could end in injury, and that's not even counting his vacations with Ian, or his extracurricular activities for MI6 - but it was a fight to just stay there and let it happen.

Finally, it was over. The three large men loomed over him, cutting out the light.

"I'm not bloody MI6!" Alex yelled, letting his inner, more petulant child show through. "I left, okay? I wanted out and I made a run for it! My last mission was supposed to be going after Kony, but after what the bloody bastards at MI6 did, I'd rather help him just to piss them off! I have information!"

Alex talked to fast and sobbed too loudly. His breath hitched more in his throat than it ever had.

The performance, in other words, deserved a bloody Oscar.

_Do they give acting awards to spies? They bloody well should, _Alex thought with grim good humor as he attempted to pretend to fight through his tears to speak.

_Well, the best lies are the ones with a bit of truth in them, _Alex told himself bitterly. He wasn't thinking of the truth behind his own lie, but of the way Scorpia had played him for a fool and managed to convince him that MI6 had ordered his father's death. Regardless of how Alex felt about Alan Blunt, he knew that MI6 were the good guys. They were fighting his fight, and they had a common enemy.

Alex let loose a particularly loud sob, clearing his mind of these thoughts. He didn't need to be philosophizing while in enemy territory. That could wait until after Alex had killed Kony.

Simon watched Alex for a long moment, trying to decide if he was the real deal or not.

If Alex was telling the truth, Simon knew he would have hit a goldmine. But if the boy was lying…

Well, then Simon could kiss his arm goodbye. Or his life, depending on Kony's mood.

Simon hadn't gotten to be a gangster in Lira by being careless. He would kick the boy on up to someone who could manage the whole thing without breaking a sweat. If he were right, Jean would reward him. Not as well as Kony, but he wouldn't kill Simon if the kid was worthless either. Probably. And even if he didn't, it wouldn't be as horrible as anything Kony would come up with. Simon was brutal, but he was a cautious man. When his contact in Manchester had told him what Alex was, Simon had all but decided that he wanted no part in whatever this was.

It was an easy decision to make. You could all but see the doom on the kid's head. He was headed for trouble.

"Watch him," he ordered his men. "And take care of his wounds."

Simon needed to go talk to Jean Paul Pierre. If you could consider Simon a gangster, Pierre was the crime lord of Lira. Drug dealers, illegal sex traders, gunrunners, and gangsters like Simon were allowed to do their thing in Lira, but it was by Pierre's good graces they remained. His cut of all their earnings was a full thirty percent.

Better still, Pierre was definitely better able to handle the mess that had just dropped into Simon's lap.

Alex didn't hear what Simon was saying into his phone as he left. There was a funny ringing in his ears. One of the goons helped him up with a completely empty apology. Alex sat on one of the nearest chairs and accepted the wet towel one of the men passed him to wipe his cuts. He ran it across his forehead - it came away bright red. Shit.

His Armani suit was dirty, but not beyond repair. The goons had done a good job on him - no broken bones, barely any cut skin, just really, _really _painful bruises. Alex knew professionals when they hit him over the head, and these two were definitely professionals. Even if they were just lackeys.

_Former soldiers, _Alex thought, examining the scars on their arms. One of them had scars that wrapped around his lower right arm, and Alex realized that they were scars from shrapnel. A bomb had exploded close enough for this man to get on the business end of things. How did a soldier wounded in the line of duty end up in a place like this?

_Probably did some mercenary work for the right people and ended up here as bodyguards for a minor gangster. _Alex took in their impeccable suits and Rolex watches.

_Must be pay well, _Alex surmised. He logged that way for later; his head was still feeling kind of foggy.

The two goons talked in rapid fire French. As his brain cleared up, Alex figured they were talking about some new lady dancer at a local club. He leaned back, wondering if he could glean anything important from this conversation.

The answer was no; the guards were either entirely mindless or very well trained, because they didn't bring up anything even remotely work related. Alex was siding with well trained.

_Definitely ex-military then, _Alex confirmed for himself.

After an hour or two, as a man took up a place behind the bar (obviously the bartender, getting ready to open the place for customers), the two bodyguards shoved Alex into the back room and up a flight of stairs. They ended up in a worn looking room with a few couches and a fridge. One opened the fridge and grabbed a coke.

"Want something to drink?" Alex was brought back to the present by the guard's question.

"Do you have water?" Alex asked. The guard tossed him a bottle, which Alex checked to make sure was sealed. After all, the very first rule of traveling was 'don't drink the water.' Ian had drilled that into him well enough, hadn't he?

Alex nearly choked on the gulp of water he had taken. He didn't want to think about Ian right now.

The teen must have fallen asleep on the couch, because the next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake. Alex couldn't see any windows, and his internal clock was still off from jet lag, but his watch told him it was two in the morning. The slightly muffled sounds from the bar below him filtered through the floorboards.

"Come on." Simon was back and pulling Alex up. The teen went without a fuss, following the gangster down a back flight of stairs towards a battered car parked in the back of the lot. Alex was pushed in, and before he could protest, a bag was shoved over his head. He reached up, annoyed, ready to pull it off, but someone (Simon, Alex had to figure) grabbed him by the wrist.

"You can't know where we're going," Simon said. "That's Pierre's deal. And if you want to talk to Kony, that's who you need to talk to, and you need to do it on his terms."

Alex paused, shoving down his irritation. That actually seemed fair enough. He nodded, and Simon released his hand. Alex felt two goons sit on either side of him (the bodyguards? Alex thought so, but he couldn't tell for sure), and the car rumbled to life.

The teen spent the ride trying to figure out how he was going to convince Pierre to take him to Kony.

The file Alex had been given included a segment on Jean Paul Pierre. He was the gangster lord of Lira; nothing criminal happened in this city without it getting back to him. He was Kony's primary contact inside the city. He smuggled guns for the LRA, and was one of the most covert arms-dealers in the business. Alex idly wondered how many people had been killed with guns bought from Jean Paul Pierre. He decided he'd rather not know.

Besides, it didn't change the fact that Pierre sold guns didn't change the fact that it was Kony's men, not Pierre's, who pulled those triggers. Alex didn't really care about the gunrunner one way or another; Pierre kept crime in Lira to a manageable level, and could always pull criminals in line when they got out of hand. With very little centralized authority, Alex recognized the need for hierarchies such as this within the criminal sector.

This cognitive acceptance of Pierre's role in the world did not change the fact that Alex knew he would be killed for even the slightest slip up.

They drove for maybe half an hour. When they finally slowed to a stop, Alex heard the muffled electric beat of rave music and knew they must be near some kind of bar or club.

_What is it with gangsters and bars? I feel like I've stepped into a Film Noir. Next thing you know, Bogie's gonna come around the corner and start calling everybody 'babydoll'._

Alex fought down a bubble of laughter that rose at the image. Even Bond spent much of his screen time in bars. _Maybe I need to get a signature drink, _he thought.

"Out," Simon said, and Alex felt himself half pushed and half pulled out of the car. Still hooded, he was lead up a flight of metal stairs that didn't feel very stable, and which he figured had to be a back entrance, before he was rushed inside.

The hood was removed, and Alex looked around at the posh room. There was rich red carpet under his feet, with bright silk hangings. The furniture was all sleek black leather, and the walls were well-polished mahogany paneling. There were bright silk hangings, which more than made up for the lack of windows. Alex suspected that the walls held reinforced steel, strong enough to block bullets and hold up against minor explosions.

There were two armed guards in the corner, guarding a door at the far end.

"We're here to see Pierre," Simon said. "He wants to talk to the kid."

The guard nodded and opened the door. Alex figured that they had already been informed of their arrival and knew exactly what they looked like. The two bodyguards from the bar were still behind Alex, who had vindicated his earlier assumption. The two of them pushed Alex forward when he didn't start moving fast enough.

"Hey, come on, I don't push you guys around," Alex protested, not really meaning it. One of them actually cracked a small smile before letting go. Alex stumbled but caught his balance in time to walk into the office of the most powerful criminal in Lira.

_I have an interesting life, _Alex decided, meeting the eyes of Jean Paul Pierre. It was strange, but the man had an office that looked like almost any other. There were wood paneled floors, a long glass conference table that took up the center of the room, and bookcases and file cabinets lining the shelves. Alex would bet his life that one of those bookcases opened up to a cache of weapons, if not all of them.

Without being asked, Alex stepped forward and took one of the chairs at the table, meeting Pierre's eyes over the glass counter.

"Alex Rider, I presume," Pierre said, with a forced smile. He was black, and he spoke in unhesitating English tinged with a French accent.

"Your presumption would be correct," Alex said. He heard the door close behind him, and realized that he had been left alone with the gangster. He tried not to dwell on that, because if he did, it would make his skin crawl.

"What can I do for a member of the British secret services? If you have come here to die, I assure you that the coward's way out is much simpler than anything I can afford you."

Alex smirked at the sarcasm. Now here was a guy after his own heart! He gave a long-suffering sigh.

"What is it about me that makes people assume I'm suicidal?" Alex asked.

"Perhaps they are jealous of your quick wit and are merely expressing their own desire to strangle the teenager in front of them by projecting it onto you?" Pierre asked.

"Or perhaps it is because they are aware of your blatant disregard for your own welfare."

"So which are you?" Alex wondered aloud. Pierre raised one eyebrow, his face a perfect deadpan.

"I am the one who wonders why I have not yet shot the insolent little boy who comes prancing into my bar and expects me to do favors for him," Pierre commented dryly.

"Fair enough," Alex said, dropping the sarcasm. He did have work to do. "I believe you have probably heard the rumors about my… departure from MI6."

"Yes, your inspired little break in," Pierre smirked. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"No."

"How unfortunate."

"Quite," Alex said. "I was rather… pissed… with MI6 by that point, and I'm sorry to say it left me little time to actually search for the information I had gone there to collect."

"And why was that?"

"Because, several weeks prior, I had been informed that my next mission would be the assassination of a man by the name of Joseph Kony."

The gun was drawn so quickly that Alex didn't even see the man's hand move. But then it was there, facing him. Alex forced himself to stay absolutely still.

"Oh, put that away," Alex snapped. "I refused. I do not work for MI6 willingly, and I have severed my ties with them. The break in was a rather petulant revenge on my part. I didn't get what I went there for, but I did find something rather useful… the full MI6 dossier on Joseph Kony."

Silence reigned in the room.

Pierre did not put the gun down.

"Where is that file now?"

"Oh, that's not important," Alex said, waving the question away.

"You'll find it rather is," Pierre interjected. "Where did you hide the file?"

"Nowhere it can be found, I assure you," Alex snapped. "Now would you put the bloody gun away? There's more. MI6 hired another team to take a shot at Kony."

More silence, then the sound of the gun being reluctantly placed down on the table.

"Names, training, skill set…?" Pierre asked.

Alex shook his head.

"That information I give to Kony. I have a deal for him. He gets the dossier – it's the original by the way, I deleted everything once I downloaded it, and then I hacked the CIA, Mossad, and ASIS for good measure and did the same - and the information about the hit team coming after him, and I get protection from the bloody bastards at MI6 who thought that blackmail was good business practice."

Alex actually had done that, though not on the night of his break in. Yassen had helped him make it happen, because both of them knew that Pierre (who was basically second in command to Kony and his right hand man outside the LRA) would definitely notice the sudden lack of chatter about his boss. It hadn't been easy. In fact, Alex was downright relieved by how difficult it had been to delete all the intelligence the nations of the world had gathered on Kony, just as they were planning a major joint operation to take the evil man down.

"Blackmail _is_ good business practice, Mr. Rider."

Alex smirked again.

"You misunderstand; I meant the attempt to blackmail _me_, Mr. Pierre," Alex explained. "You see, I don't much take to people telling me what to do."

"Is that a threat?"

"How cliché. Do you think it is?"

"What do I get out of this deal?" Pierre asked, drawing Alex away from their sarcastic sparring, and entirely ignoring the teen's comment.

"Well, if you don't help me, I will send my copy of Kony's dossier back to MI6 via postage from Lira, with your bar as the return address," Alex replied, enjoying the emotions that played across Pierre's face. "559 Gulu road, right?"

Pierre stiffened in his seat, and the teenager mentally thanked Yassen for providing that little tidbit. It had completely disarmed the arms dealer (Alex fought the urge to giggle at that particular thought). Alex pulled a stack of papers from his waistband and tossed them onto the table.

"Anyway, after I do that, I will hand a copy of these documents to Hisashi Owada - who is the president of the ICJ, but I'm sure you knew that already - the Ugandan government, and, most regrettably, my good _friends _at MI6." Alex gestured to the papers, and Pierre opened them. Alex could have sworn he saw a vein pop in the man's forehead.

He knew why, too. The papers detailed forged financial transactions between Kony and Pierre. According to those papers, Kony owned the lease on Pierre's club, had bought him several cars, and even paid his dental bills (the last one was bizarrely true, and hadn't needed to be fabricated. Zaaiman had bought everything else in Kony's name, saying that the money was going to a good cause).

"Now, I'm sure with a bit of effort, you _could _avoid being dragged in front of an international tribunal for associating with someone accused of crimes against humanity, but it would ruin your reputation, and you'd probably never run guns for Kony - or anyone else for that matter - ever again," Alex continued, watching the blood drain from the other man's face. "Which of your clientele, Mr. Pierre, will come to silence you first once they think that you will give them up for reduced sentencing? Will Kony, do you think? Or perhaps the Cartels will? I _really _hope you know some good abandoned islands you can flee to – oh, wait, your money launderer would also be on the short list of suspects for your murder, won't he? Because your associations are his associations, after all. How unfortunate."

"Of course, we could avoid that unpleasantness altogether and agree to just be friends," Alex finished.

_Check and mate, my friend, _he thought as he sat back in his chair. He knew that Pierre would take his bait. Pierre wouldn't risk the world at large making a concrete connection between him and his most trusted client, thus rendering his function useless (if he wasn't thrown in jail by the UN or killed by any of his clients). Even if Pierre dodged every bullet that Alex's blackmail attempt threw at him, Kony would still have him tracked down and murdered.

Pierre seemed to be having difficultly forming coherent words. He mouthed some words that sounded like expletives in French.

"For someone who does not agree with blackmail, you are quite good at it," Pierre finally said. Alex grinned and leaned in close to the gangster.

"This is just business - you should see what I can do when I'm in a bad mood," Alex said conspiratorially, waving away the compliment. "I didn't get what I was looking for at MI6, but I made sure that if I couldn't have that information, they couldn't either. I sabotaged some of their software… it was a hassle but worth it, I think. They'll be feeling the effects of that break in for years."

"I don't doubt."

"So in return to your earlier question, you get to keep your life and your business, in exchange for setting up a meeting between me and Kony. I'm sure you'll find the terms acceptable."

"Or I could just kill you now."

The gun was back in Pierre's hand, not pointing at Alex, but Pierre was eyeing him carefully. Alex got the chilling suspicion that the man was wondering which part of the teenager's body would make the best target for a 9mm bullet. He gulped and pushed forward.

"True, but I have that information rigged to my email account; every morning at a specific time, it sends out a copy of everything I just told you about the aforementioned recipients, unless I type in my personal password. So yes, you could kill me. But you'd still end up screwed."

Pierre nodded, seemingly thinking Alex's deal over.

"Very well, I'll take you to see Kony," Pierre said finally. Alex grinned, letting all the malice and tension visibly drain out of his body at once.

"Great!"

_That's the funny thing about spies, _Alex thought, examining Pierre. _We're very similar creatures, and it's easy to guess what move the other is planning. All you have to do is examine the problem from their perspective and figure out what you would do._

Alex found himself rather liking Pierre, for all that he knew the Frenchman was associating with Kony.

Truth be told, Pierre reminded Alex a lot of Ian. The sardonic smile, the meaningless threats, the sharp logic… they were definitely very smiliar people. Alex wondered if it took someone with a specific kind of temperament to become a spy, or if the attitude most spies shared came after they had signed up for their jobs.

"Of course, I can't have a teenager roaming unsupervised around my headquarters," Pierre said, and his smile shifted into a smirk. "You will be restrained while you are here, and I will not hesitate to have you whipped if you misbehave."

Alex didn't bring his guard up in time to anticipate being grabbed from behind.

"Hey, what the hell—"

Alex didn't get much further than that, because a cloth was brought up over his nose. Alex caught a sweet, sickly smell before the world lurched uncomfortably and faded into darkness.

….

"Thank you Mrs. Jones," Alan Blunt was saying. The words brought the deputy director of MI6 out of her stupor. She had faded out while giving her usual report to her superior.

"For now it doesn't seem like we can expect any direct retribution for bin-Laden's death, so let's focus on matters closer to home. How is Agent Rider doing?"

"Ian is recovering relatively quickly, but it is a slow process," Mrs. Jones responded. "We may never be able to have him fully cleared for active duty again, even if he does make a complete recovery. I have the doctor's evaluations for you in my full report."

"Of course. Are we any closer to catching Alex?"

"He has dropped off the grid for now, along with any information he might have taken with him," Mrs. Jones replied. Blunt nodded.

"Update his Interpol file to list him as a priority one criminal," the director of MI6 ordered. Mrs. Jones knew a dismissal when she was handed one - her superior wasn't the kind of man who was very subtle when he wanted his opinions known.

"And Tulip?"

Mrs. Jones paused at the door, and it occurred to her how much she wanted him out of this office. The business with Alex Rider was disturbing, but the rift between her and her superior ran far deeper. She could give a lot to see the man packing his office, even if it meant she had to do the same. She shook her head to clear it of that thought.

"Make sure that the Interpol file makes it clear that he is to be brought in _alive. _Hiscorpse would be rather useless to us."

Mrs. Jones' frown - the one that had perpetually marred her face since Alex had gone missing - deepened, if that were even possible. She would do it, she knew.

But while she was speaking to the Interpol representative, she would place in a call to a friend with connections in the Internal Affairs division of the SIS.

It might take her many months - years even - to do this properly, but she would have Alan brought up on charges for what he had done to Alex Rider. His orders now had convinced her of that. He might be able to convince the Prime Minister that he had nothing to do with Alex going rouge, but Mrs. Jones knew better.

Somewhere within this agency, she knew she could find evidence to prove Alex's innocence. And she would make sure that when the time came, the right people could find it easily enough.

Wherever the teenager was, Mrs. Jones just hoped that Alex could stay out of sight. If he couldn't… well, then Alan would have Alex back under his control.

Idly, Tulip Jones wondered if she would lose her job when Alan did.

Somehow, that thought didn't distress her as much as she once thought it would.

Mrs. Jones sighed. Before she picked up the phone, she took a moment to rummage through her drawers for a folder she hadn't seen for years.

It was at the bottom of a stack of forgotten files, dealing with who-knew-what kind of operations. She opened it and pulled out a large bundle.

The deputy director of MI6 wondered how her colleagues would react when they found out that the woman who hadn't so much as taken a single sick day in decades of service was filing for extended leave.

_Six months in the Caribbean would do me some good, _she mused. She needed to take some time away from this job and go somewhere where she wasn't faced with a daily reminder of what she had helped Alan Blunt do to the Riders. She needed some space, she knew. After the tragedy with John, she had just thrown herself into her work, hoping to forget it all.

She needed some serious down time, and nobody who worked with her was going to disagree.

…

Alex was no stranger to waking up after having been drugged. That fact alone made him feel like strangling someone, but he figured it was one of the perks of the job.

He was sitting in a dark room, tied to a chair. His hands were bound with zip ties to the armrests, and his feet were attached to the legs of the chair the same way, from what Alex could gather. There was a strip of cloth tied around his head, which lodged solidly between his teeth, functioning as a gag.

Alex sighed. Why had he even been surprised? From what he had read in the man's file, Pierre was a person who didn't like being out of control. The fact that a teenager had so soundly beaten him at his own game was going to smart enough for him to want to prove who was really in control here.

_Bloody, power-hungry, obsessive, megalomaniac, egotistical, stick-up-the-arse - _

Alex didn't get much further into his mental tirade because a door opened in front of him, blinding him as the bright light from outside streamed in. Lights flicked on overhead.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Pierre said cheerfully.

Alex groaned, his mind starting again on a line of curses that would definitely have gotten him in trouble with Jack. Either that, or make her start cracking up, depending on what the situation was.

Alex blinded rapidly, letting his eyes adjust. Pierre had taken the gag out of his mouth and was smiling as if it was Christmas.

"Wow, that was mature," Alex said, unable to bite back the response.

Pierre backhanded him in the side of his face, still smiling.

"Just because you have managed to put yourself in a position where I cannot kill you does not mean that I will tolerate disrespect," Pierre said slowly.

Alex couldn't hold back his reflexive sarcasm before the words were tumbling out of his mouth.

"Well, I always heard that some men use violence to make up for a lack of wit," he grumbled.

Another slap, from the other direction, made Alex seal his lips tight. _Was he fucking insane? Why was he baiting a mass-murdering criminal?_

_It's fun? _Alex tried to justify it with an internal shrug.

_Go drown in a lake, I have a job to do, _Alex's more responsible side replied. Now fully awake, he focused his attention on the gangster who was responsible for shipping guns to an unstable homicidal maniac.

The gangster was cutting Alex loose from the bonds that gelled him securely to the chair.

"Let's go," Pierre said, his voice still cheerful.

"What? How long have I been out?" Alex asked.

"A day, maybe," Pierre said. "I figured you would be more tractable unconscious."

Alex couldn't even find it within himself to be angry.

"So are we going to meet Kony?" Alex asked as he stood, rubbing circulation back into his wrists.

"Yes, but first you are going to uphold your end of the deal."

Alex stared blankly at the man before he remembered. His threat of having his email send a copy of his forged documents if he didn't log on by a certain time.

"Oh, right."

Pierre led Alex out of the room, and up a flight of stairs. They didn't meet anyone. The gangster opened the door to his office and planted Alex at the table, in front of a laptop computer. Predictably, it was a Mac (_I always knew that they were evil computers, _Alex thought with a small smirk).

"You aren't to contact anyone, or do anything other than deal with your little… insurance policy," Pierre said casually. Alex knew if he tried, he would end up _extremely _sorry for the attempt.

_Dare you to try, _Alex thought to himself, idly wondering how far he could push Pierre before real violence made an appearance.

It wasn't worth it though - he didn't have anyone to contact. He wouldn't touch any of his friends or family with a ten foot pole while on a mission, even if he knew where Jack was. And it wasn't like he actually _needed _(or for that matter, wanted) to contact the renegades now. His only direct contact with them would be when the deed was done, and he was calling for a lift home. Alex knew there was backup following him, but their cover was so deep that they could never be found.

So he didn't complain as he logged onto his email and typed in the password that would stop the system from sending out his blackmail package. He logged out and handed the computer back to Pierre.

"We good?" Alex asked. Pierre watched him carefully, as if searching for some evidence of treachery.

"For now," he said evenly. Alex heard a door open behind them, and a pair of guards (not the same ones who had escorted Alex from Simon's bar) entered the room.  
Alex's eyes zeroed in on the handcuffs one of them was holding.

"You'll be retrained for the ride over," Pierre said, smiling again. The smug bastard.

"Fan-bloody-tastic," Alex said, turning to the guards and holding out his hands. The man closed the cuffs around his wrists, the metal biting into his skin.

Alex wondered how many times he had worn handcuffs in his life.

He honestly couldn't remember.

"A bloke might think you've got a thing for tying up teenage boys," Alex muttered. Pierre merely shoved a bag over Alex's head as the two goons grabbed his arms and frog marched him out of the room.

_This is fun, _Alex thought bitterly.

He was bundled into a car. There was air conditioning, thank god, but Alex was very quickly bored by the fact that he couldn't see anything. He fell asleep a couple of times, only really waking up when someone was shaking his shoulder.

They had stopped.

"Wha…" Alex was halfway through trying to form a coherent thought when there was a sound of a door opening, and Alex was pushed forward, almost tripping on the uneven ground.

Someone was speaking rapidly in a language Alex didn't know. Swahili, he figured. He was pushed forward again, and he walked as quickly as he could without tripping. Alex heard Pierre's voice next to him, and it sounded incredibly irate. He was quickly getting frustrated with whatever he was being told.

Alex didn't really like the way things were going.

It was hot and muggy, and it was quickly becoming difficult to breathe with his head inside of a hemp bag. Alex was getting rather annoyed with the situation as a whole, and was about to snap something at whoever was holding him hard enough to bruise when he was shoved into a metal chair. The handcuff was taken off his left hand, and reattached behind the chair. His feet were tied in place.

_Gee, this is familiar, _Alex thought sourly.

The bag was ripped off his head. Alex wasn't prepared for the dim light that hit his eyes – he seemed to be in some kind of very large tent that was set up like a command center. He was looking up at a circle of armed men and women, all carrying machine guns that were aimed at him.

But these men and women weren't guards of the kind that most of the megalomaniacs Alex dealt with hired. Those were tough, well-trained soldiers who were making an excursion or a career in the private sector. The people standing in front of him had seen plenty of action, but they were not trained. The look in their eyes was half-wild and empty. Their clothes were dirty and torn, covered in dark stains that Alex knew was blood. He recognized the scar from a bullet wound on one of their biceps, where the torn shirt showed dirty and scarred skin. They were half starved.

And they were all children.

That was what disturbed Alex the most, he thought, meeting their eyes. The sight of a twelve-year-old girl pointing an AK-47 at him was just… wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

And even though they were young and starved and probably bearing untreated injuries, Alex knew that they wouldn't hesitate to shoot him. He saw it in their posture and their flat expressions – they would shoot him as easily as he had killed Dr. Grief and countless other men and women who had tried to get in his way.

Pierre was arguing with one of the older boys in the group – he looked to be about seventeen. The boy was gesturing at Alex angrily, and Alex didn't need to speak the language to know that the older teenager wanted to shoot him.

Pierre snapped something behind Alex, and the armed guards lowered their guns, keeping a careful watch on him.

The seventeen year old stalked up to Alex, and for a moment, the waves of hostility that rolled off the child soldier were familiar.

Alex remembered looking into a mirror at the CIA headquarters in Virginia (how long ago had it been? Days? Months?). He remembered seeing cold and empty eyes stare back at him – the eyes of someone who had seen too much death and murdered too many people. The predatory posture – ready to attack at any moment – was familiar too.

Alex was forced to quell the waves of sympathy that rose in his gut for the older boy. He didn't need Alex's pity, and the teenage spy couldn't afford to be distracted. He had a job to do. Perhaps, when he was done, this boy might be able to begin picking up his life.

"Vous parlez français?"

"Un peu," Alex shrugged, refusing to look away.

"Pourquoi venez-vous ici?"

The voice was cold, demanding.

"J'avais l'habitude d'être un espion," Alex shrugged again. "J'ai appris des choses que votre chef peut vous intéresser*."

The older teen stiffened and glared at Pierre, snapping angrily in Swahili again. Pierre responded quickly and quietly, not getting angry. It seemed obvious that this teenager had a certain amount of authority in the LRA.

After what seemed like a very long time, the two seemed to reach some kind of agreement. Pierre clapped Alex cheerfully on the shoulder and left Alex staring up at a bunch of teenagers with guns.

_Well, this is going to be fun._

…..

**Translations: **

**1. ****"You speak French?"**

**2. ****"A little."**

**3. ****"Why have you come here?"**

**4. ****"I used to be a spy. I have some information that may be of interest to your leader."**

**And we're done here! Till next time folks!**

**~InK**


	22. Birdsong

Operation: Bury Your Dead – Birdsong

**Hey guys! Did you miss me? I'm ba-ack – and I have a shiny new chapter for you!**

**So I have some bad news and some good news. The bad news is that this is the LAST CHAPTER of Bury Your Dead. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is the end. *sniff * It's been more than a year since this story began, and while there are some things I'm not thrilled with, overall, I'm reasonably happy about where this ended up.**

**The good news is that there will be a third and final arc to this story. Its name will be Operation: Scorched Earth, and it WILL be the END. As in, the END END END of this Alex Rider fiction.**

**Oh – and WARNING: This chapter includes a graphic rape scene (not of Alex), and some graphic violence. I might consider upping the rating on this story just for that scene. But yeah, just so you have a heads up. If that kind of thing isn't your pot of tea, feel free to skim over it or leave. **

**Thanks for all your support, especially that of prone2dementia, who was an incredible help making the last half of this story worth posting.**

…..

Jack was sitting in the park, listening to the sound of birds singing. It didn't seem to matter to her that the weather in D.C was muggy and awful this time of year, or that the cast on her arm felt like it was a thousand degrees. For the last week, she had resolutely come here, to sit in front of the Lincoln memorial, and pray.

Alex had promised he would come.

And she had promised that she would be here. So whatever trouble Alex had landed himself into (again), she would be here until he came.

She could do that much for him, at least.

"Miss Starbright, I was wondering if I would ever see you again."

Jack nearly jumped off the bench when she heard the voice behind her. She relaxed somewhat, recognizing Donny Walsh, the D.C Metro police chief who had tried to help her find and save Alex.

"Still no sign of your kid then?"

Jack shook her head as Donny took a seat next to her.

"From what you said, he's a smart kid; he can take care of himself," Donny observed.

"He shouldn't have to!" Jack all but snarled. Donny held up his hands in surrender.

"I ain't arguing the point. But it seems like you've done all you can, and you're tearing yourself apart when he's the only one who can really help himself."

"I won't give up on him," Jack said stiffly. "I'm all he has, I—"

Jack's phone rang. She stared at it for a moment, as if not recognizing it. She had left it in her hotel the night she and Donny had gone to dinner and Scorpia had kidnapped her, and had since recovered it.

"Hello?"

"Jack?"

Alex's voice sounded a lot younger over the phone.

"Alex, are you all right?" Jack demanded.

"I'm fine Jack, I just…" Alex's voice trailed off. "There's…" He swore. "I don't have much time and there's something I have to do. MI6 is still after me, and I don't know if I can make it to D.C. It's probably safer if I stay away."

"You're not working for them again, are you?"

"Hell no!"

"Good."

"I have to go Jack. I love you."

"I love you too, Alex. Stay safe."

The line went dead.

"Is he okay?" Donny asked quietly.

"With him, I never know," Jack whispered. God, she hadn't felt this horrible since Ian had died. "I hope so."

"Do you want to stay here?"

Jack looked up at the statue of Lincoln, which now seemed to mock her for being there in the first place, for thinking that she could possibly save Alex.

"I need a drink," she said finally.

"It's noon," Donny answered.

"It's nighttime in London," Jack muttered rebelliously.

"Nope, not buying it," Donny said. "You only think you want to drink yourself silly now. It's not a good way to go, trust me."

Jack sighed.

"Is there anything you can do immediately that can help Alex?" Donny asked. Jack thought, and shook her head shamefully.

"Then come on; when you can do something, you'll know, and until then, drowning yourself in guilt or drink won't help."

Jack let Donny lead her out of the park, and she tried to put away the part of her mind that told her this was a betrayal. She knew that Alex wasn't in D.C, so she needn't wait at the memorial… but she still felt like crap about it.

…

"_I have to go Jack. I love you."_

Alex hung up the phone and smashed it under his foot. Working quickly, he snuck over to the latrine pit and tossed the remains in, careful to make sure that no pieces of the phone were left.

He had needed to hear Jack's voice, to know she was okay. But even as he returned to the main camp and watched the child soldiers mill about under the hot afternoon sun, Alex began to regret the call. How much danger had he put Jack in by calling her while on a mission? How badly had he compromised himself?

As his recklessness faded, Alex felt a wave of uncertainty and self-loathing replace it. No matter how lonely or isolated he felt in the field, it was unacceptable to put himself or others at risk.

_I wish I had never tried to find out how Ian died, _Alex thought bitterly.

Nobody had spoken to him in a week. He was sleeping on a set of blankets in a supply tent, eating with everyone else at mealtimes in the area set up next to the kitchens.

The kids rotated duties – cleaning, patrolling, cooking, maintaining weapons, fetching water, hunting and doing every other little thing that needed to be done for a group of a couple hundred people living in the wild. A handful of older kids (Alex guessed they were seventeen or eighteen, though it was hard to tell) were responsible for organizing the shift in duties.

The sound of tropical birds and gunfire permeated the compound. Alex hadn't caught anyone at anything resembling personal conversation yet. The compound of the Lord's Resistance Army was a bleak place.

He spent a lot of time wandering the woods, getting familiar with the area. Everything he had ever learned about jungle survival was at the forefront of his mind as he went off exploring (he did feel guilty about the fact that he was violating rule number one of every wilderness survival handbook – follow the buddy system – but then again that could hardly be helped).

He cleaned his weapons more times than could be possibly necessary and practiced firing with the other members of the LRA. They pretended to ignore him, and he tried unsuccessfully to ignore them in return.

Watchful, mistrusting eyes followed Alex anywhere he went around the compound. It was nerve wracking.

What was worse than the inescapable gazes was the sight of an emaciated ten year old firing a gun, her lips cut all the way back to the gums.

Alex knew he would see that in his nightmares.

He seemed to gain a grudging respect from the other kids when they saw his shooting, but it wasn't much. Alex understood that – here, he was the interloper. He doubted there was anything he could do to be accepted, and so he forced himself not to care.

He _couldn't_ care if he was going to do his job right.

Alex was still wearing the collared shirt that the renegades had outfitted him with. He had found a knife sewn into the side of the collar. It was a blade so small he could hide it in his hand once he drew it, but it would do its job. It was also probably the only weapon he could smuggle into Kony's presence. Kony was paranoid, as evidenced by the fact that even though Alex had been at the compound for almost a week, he still hadn't seen the man, despite the vital nature of the information he supposedly carried.

So no matter how satisfying it was to practice with guns, Alex knew that his life was riding on the small knife hidden under the stiff collar of his dress shirt.

There was also a camera in his shoe. Alex expected it was so that he could give Scorpia proof of Kony's death. Elusive as the man proved to be, it would be almost impossible without firsthand evidence to verify whether Alex had actually completed his assignment.

Still, he practiced with his gun because the feel of something solid in his hands, and the calm of shooting that he had developed while being trained by Scorpia, let him keep busy. Otherwise, there wasn't a lot to do besides exploring the jungle and trying not to pace himself into a near frenzy of anticipation.

Alex also spent a lot of time going through his almost forgotten kata. He had used the movements he had learned in karate to fight many times, but it had been too long since he had preformed them for their own sake. He ran through the movements, feeling the art in the forms as he shifted from attacking to defending and back again.

Of course, every morning, one of the older soldiers shoved a satellite phone at Alex. It had some crude internet connection, allowing Alex to access his email and to deactivate his blackmail package. He was always watched carefully, and the phone was pulled away from him almost before he was done.

Ultimately, however, he spent a lot of time just waiting around, like the rest of the LRA. He had no idea what they were waiting for… but he was starting to get antsy. He wanted this job over with. Perhaps he should have just cut his losses and run when Scorpia let him.

He wondered how much longer he could spend waiting at the compound before he went insane.

His waking hours not spent shooting were spent assessing the compound. It was pretty secure, and Alex doubted he could ever get a decent chance to make the whole place go up in smoke. But then again, all he needed to do was kill Kony, so perhaps that was for the best.

He tried to figure out possible escape routes for a quick getaway, but he quickly gave up, knowing that Kony would hardly meet him here, in the LRA compound itself, and that if he did try to run for it, he would be dead before he made it a few feet. He was always watched.

When he slept, all he heard was the sound of birds and the shifting of the guards. This wasn't an easy place to sleep.

The night after he had called Jack, Alex had an especially bad time trying to get to sleep. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something, that something was wrong.

They came for him around dawn. He was dragged up by the arms: he tried to strike out in the dark. The blow landed, but whoever was dragging him just twisted his shoulder. Alex cried out, unable to keep silent against the unexpected pain. He was shoved to the ground, and a gun was pointed at him. Alex raised his hands to show they were empty, and that he wasn't resisting. He complied with the growled order to stand in French.

He tried to count how many kids there were, but they were moving all around him, and it was dark. Out in the compound, where some spotlights were erected, Alex roughly counted that he had ten guards. They moved out of the main compound, into the trees. The world grew dark around them again. Alex didn't know how the children leading him could move so confidently in the dark, because with the thick canopy of trees, the forest was nearly pitch black around them.

Was this an intimidation tactic, or did these children truly move about in the dark like ghosts, without fear of attack? Alex knew that there were many deadly creatures that hid in the night, like poisonous snakes and spiders, wild beasts looking for a snack.

_Perhaps they have simply killed everything large enough to attack them, _Alex mused. _And as for spiders and snakes, maybe they just don't care. _

They traveled for about five minutes, with Alex prodded along at the point of an AK-47 (and really, wasn't that entirely overkill?).

When they stopped, the kid behind Alex grabbed hold of his shoulder, holding him back.

It took Alex a moment to process what he was seeing.

A boy about Alex's age was lying on the ground, obviously having been beaten. Three younger girls were being restrained by guards a few feet away from the boy. They were sobbing.

The whole scene was almost surreal, illuminated by a few hastily turned on flashlights and the low burning embers of a fire that had burned here recently, the sound of sobbing and loud breathing punctuated by the cry of birds.

One of the guards around the beaten boy kicked him, and the boy clutched his stomach. He didn't cry out.

"_Look up."_

The order came in French from one of the men holding onto the girls.

Alex tried to tear his eyes away, but he couldn't. Three knives were produced.

"_This is only your doing."_

The boy cried out, but received only another kick to the side. Alex heard the almost palpably painful sound of crunching ribs.

The three girls were raped. Screams rent the air – the three girls were sobbing, pleading, crying out for salvation, god, anything.

Alex looked away, but he couldn't shut out the sounds. The shrieks blended with the screeching of birds around them. It was horrible – like there were a thousand screaming children crying out in the night. The sound made Alex want to cover his ears, but his arms were held tightly at his sides.

The boy was screaming threats of violence and death, yelling like his entire soul was being torn apart.

It was a mercy when cold steel tore through skin and muscle across the necks of the three girls. Their bodies fell, twisted and grotesque.

Alex thought of Jack, knowing that that could be him, forced to watch Jack lying there bleeding…

He doubled over and vomited.

It was quiet now, unbearably so. The boy had fallen absolutely still. Even the birds had fallen silent.

Alex was dragged away as the guards converged on the boy.

He didn't sleep that night.

The next day, Alex didn't imagine he would run into the boy, but he did.

He was missing an ear, and his arms ended in bandaged stubs, but he was alive.

He looked like the living dead. He looked like he _wanted _to be dead.

Alex didn't blame him.

The boy caught Alex's glance, and for a second, it looked like he wanted to say something, but he shook his head, changing his mind.

Alex wondered what that was about, but he knew better than to ask.

He wondered what would happen when Kony decided that he had outlived his usefulness.

Alex shuddered, despite the extreme heat. The screams of the girls as they were raped rang in his ears, and the taste of bitter vomit was on his tongue.

"Dear god, please don't let me fail," Alex whispered hoarsely.

"_What are you doing?"_

The voice was curious rather than accusing. Alex turned to see a girl, whom he judged to be only a bit younger than himself. Her shirt was three sizes too big, and her jeans were rolled several times at her ragged, bare feet. Alex registered that she was beautiful, even emaciated as she was.

"_I'm praying," _Alex answered honestly.

"_And what do you pray for?"_

Again, the girl seemed only curious. But Alex knew better than to drop his guard. He wasn't going to take even the slightest risk on this mission.

"_The downfall of MI6," _he said quietly. He had told the lie easily enough in English, in front of the best bullshiters the world had to offer. If he couldn't sell it now, he deserved to be shot. His voice was quiet, but it was filled with soft rage Alex could conjure reflexively. He wondered if the lie was starting to actually affect his perception of the agency, but the point was moot. Even if MI6 were the good guys, he wasn't going to be blackmailed and abused any more.

"_Really?"_

"_Really. What do you pray for?"_

"_The death of the thrice damned bastard."_

Alex nearly choked on his next gasp of air.

"_Does he know you call him that?"_

The girl just smiled. It was the first true smile Alex had seen in a long time. It felt like a ray of sun shining through the clouds after weeks of rain. It revealed teeth that were crooked and broken. Some were gone entirely – Alex wondered if violence or bad care had done them in, and decided it didn't matter. Every fiber of his being pitied the girl in front of him.

But years of honed instincts warned Alex that she could very well be a spy sent to gauge where Alex stood on Kony, so the man could decided whether or not to trust him.

So instead of agreeing with her as he desperately wanted to do, he just shrugged.

"_Some men are bastards, but as Kony's very existence annoys MI6, I'm willing to ignore anything he does," _Alex answered smoothly.

"_So you are a man with a price," _the girl said cautiously.

"_I suppose," _Alex said wryly. _That, _at least, was true enough. _"But I doubt MI6 could pay me enough to work for them."_

"_Why all the antagonism?"_

"_They're worse bastards than Kony," _Alex answered. He wanted to flinch, but the lie rolled off his tongue like butter. What the hell was wrong with him? The girl raised an eyebrow, asking without words if that was really true. _"Don't believe me if you don't want to. At least Kony is honest about blackmailing you to work with him."_

The girl didn't say anything. She watched Alex carefully, as if searching for some sign that he was lying. Alex almost wished she would catch him at it.

After the display he had been forced to witness, it was heresy of the worst kind to favorably compare Kony to MI6. It was a crime against a god that Alex didn't even believe in.

No matter how low MI6 stooped, they had miles to go before they reached the level of Joseph Kony. Alex knew who the real bad guys were, and in this case, it wasn't MI6.

Alex felt reasonably confirmed in his suspicions that Kony had assigned her to ask him questions when she stalked off a minute later without so much as a word.

He hoped that Kony decided he was worth it, because otherwise he was bloody well fucked.

Suddenly, he felt very glad he had made that last call to Jack. He couldn't bear getting killed without being able to remember the last time the two of them had talked.

It was a small comfort.

Alex fought the urge to reach for the blade concealed in his clothing. He didn't want to even accidentally give anything away. Too much was riding on his success.

Alex rose and went to go shoot at targets, pretending they wore Kony's face.

As the gun fired smoothly, Alex wondered when he had become exactly what Scorpia had tried to mold him into.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that he hadn't been able to properly aim at a face and accurately hit it. Now… now Alex had become a killer. He had become the kind of person who did not shy away from using a weapon in violence.

Or so Alex could only hope.

He slept that night, but it was fitful, restless sleep.

It was another three days before Kony finally called for him.

A bag was shoved over his head in the middle of the night, and he was dragged outside and patted down for weapons. Alex was relieved of his two guns and the hunting knife he had strapped in his shoe, but it was no matter; he still had the small knife in his collar.

Alex let himself be dragged, this time without any resistance, but his entire body was still tense with anticipation – if he had to witness another senseless rape and execution, he'd go mad.

The guards flung him into one of the ATV's Alex had seen around the compound, and tied his hands behind his back.

Alex wondered if he was about to be executed, but he brushed the thought away. If he were, there was nothing he could do surrounded by armed guards. If he weren't… well, then there wasn't anything to worry about, was there?

Finally, the vehicle stopped short, and Alex was shoved out. He fell onto the ground. Before he could lift himself up, two guards had him by the arms and pulled him to his feet.

Alex ignored the rough treatment, knowing it was meant to intimidate him. It was the barely mature equivalent of Kony dancing around in a circle, taunting Alex about how much more power he had.

_One would wonder if I shall ever encounter a sane person trying to take over the world, _Alex thought dryly.

_Sane people don't try to take over the world, _Alex reminded himself.

_They don't become spies either, _he added grumpily as he was shoved to the ground again. The bag was yanked off his head. Whoever pulled it got some of Alex's hairs when he tugged, and Alex winced as they were pulled free.

Alex took stock of his surroundings – he was in a very large tent, facing the entrance. There were several guards by the tent flaps, and two behind him. A few electric lamps kept away the dark of the night.

And right across from him stood Joseph Kony. He pulled himself to his feet so that he could face the man eye to eye.

He expected his pulse to race and his gut to twist with fear when he stood before this murderous madman. Instead, he felt serene. In control. Like he was exactly where he needed to be. The knife was a comforting weight in his collar. This was the job. It was in his blood, in his very bones.

Alex didn't understand how the hell he had ever – even for a moment – thought that he could give this up. This whole situation was horrible, but it was right, at the same time. It felt as natural as breathing.

"_Alex Rider, the golden boy of the British secret services, why have you sought me out?"_

Alex wondered many times how anyone could believe that this man was some kind of magician or shaman or whatever – why anyone would, by their own free will, follow his orders. But hearing him speak now, Alex understood. The man had a voice like butter – it flowed without pause or hesitation, and yet it did not rush. Joseph Kony spoke deliberately and with absolute confidence.

"_Did Pierre tell you what I told him?"_

"_Yes," _Kony said. Alex caught a note of annoyance. _"Your government poses no threat to us. God and his angels direct our blows, and our bullets meet with only human flesh. I shake earths and move oceans. I do not see any threat in your secret services, or any assassins they might send after me."_

Alex stared at the man and wondered if he actually believed that. He spent a minute trying to put his thoughts into a statement that sounded something other than entirely derisive.

"_Whether or not you fear them, MI6 will still send their assassins," _he finally said. _"They will be supplied with the best cover identities available. Those covers will be perfect; their agents might even be children in your compound."_

"_MI6 would not hire children!" _Kony actually laughed.

"_I was fourteen when they ruined my life!" _Alex snarled in return. It felt good to let go of his control and give in to his anger and resentment, if only for a while. Inside, he felt calm, but he projected the emotions successfully. _"When they killed the only family I ever had and blackmailed me into working for them. If they can do it to one teenager, they can do it to others. I happen to have the full dossiers on the six-man team they assigned to kill you, and many of them are no more than children. Some are natives. Others have been undercover for years. Hell, they wanted to send _me _at you."_

Kony studied Alex carefully. He looked incredulous.

"_You are lying."_

"_No."_

"_I do not believe he is, sir," _Alex recognized the voice, even though it was speaking in French. He wasn't really all that surprised to find that Pierre was there, but he wondered how he had missed the arms dealer's entrance.

Kony held Pierre's eyes for a moment, and Alex could see the fear that gripped the arms dealer. If Alex's information was wrong, or if he had mistakenly vouched for the teenage spy… well, then Pierre would lose his life.

Perhaps he had decided it was worth it.

"_Names, then," _Kony said at last, returning to French. _"Who are these assassins you are so sure exist?"_

"_First I want an assurance of protection from MI6."_

"_Would you like that in writing, or shall we seal it in blood?"_

Alex stared. Never had he guessed Kony might posses even something remotely akin to sarcasm. He wondered if that was why he had shacked up with Pierre, or if it was the other way around.

"_Actually, I want you to give me a million dollars and a plane ticket to Nice," _Alex answered. _"And I will send you a package with the names of MI6's assassins and the information I stole about you."_

Alex expected the blow that sent him reeling to the floor.

"_You are very funny," _Kony said, without even a hint of humor.

"_See, that hurts, Jo, I was being serious," _Alex answered.

"_The names."_

Kony punctuated this with a kick to Alex's abdomen. He gasped from the pain, but he didn't think anything was broken, yet.

"_When I get the money," _he answered when he caught his breath. _"Information comes with a price."_

Alex waited for the next blow, but it never came. An explosion rocked the earth, sending most of Kony's guards down.

Alex took advantage of the distraction to thread his bound arms over his legs and bring them up to the collar of his shirt. He drew the knife and palmed it.

Shouts filled the air. Kony yelled orders in Swahili, and guards left the tent firing. Alex heard screams and gunshots fill the air.

"_It seems your assassins have been found," _Kony said snidely.

"_This will be a distraction," _Alex answered. _"The actual assassins will probably come for you in the fight."_

"_Names."_

"_There's a boy, sixteen, used to work officially for MI6," _Alex said hoarsely. The tent was nearly empty and Kony was drawing closer. He lowered his breath to barely more than a wheeze, playing up the injuries Kony had given him.

_Just a few more steps, _Alex thought. He held the knife in a completely relaxed hand.

"_Name?"_

"_His name is Alex Rider," _Alex answered, and jumped.

More yelling filled the tent, but none of the children dared fire for fear of hitting their leader.

The teenage spy and the psychotic killer rolled across the floor of the tent, a tangle of limbs and blood.

Alex sliced with the knife wherever he could reach, digging it into flesh and bone. He fought to keep a grip of the small blade. Kony was fighting back, trying to push him off.

And then he felt a blade slide at his torso, and realized that Kony had a knife. He slammed his foot down on the man's hand, forcing him to let go of the knife, and cut at his face, drawing his attention away from the fallen weapon.

Alex felt teeth sink into his arm and screamed in pain.

There was blood everywhere.

One of Kony's fists caught Alex on the side of his head. Alex, dazed, was forced to let go of the knife, and was thrown off the killer. Joseph Kony rose to stand over Alex. In the light of the tent, covered in blood, the man looked as insane as he probably was. His eyes were wide and manic. There was blood in his teeth, and Alex realized he had broken skin when he bit Alex.

"_Kill him."_

But Alex was moving again before Kony issued the order. The knife had fallen to his right and he grabbed at it, cutting his hand. He didn't care. He jumped one of the kids carrying guns, and slit her throat without a second thought. He grabbed the gun and turned. He fired three times, killing the other three guards.

Kony ran for one of the fallen weapons. Alex fired again.

Kony fell in a spray of red blood.

Red liquid was beginning to flow from the tent. Even the light seemed tinged with red, and Alex realized that the flying blood had sprayed the lanterns, coloring them like stained glass.

Moving quickly, Alex deftly sliced at his bonds before he flipped Kony's body over and pulled the camera from his shoe. Two clicks got him all the evidence he needed.

He wondered if he should be panicking that he'd just killed five people.

He didn't even care.

Outside, the sound of gunfire and yells was still prevailing. What was going on?

Alex stumped into the pre-dawn light, carrying his gun. He didn't know that in the dark, covered in mud and blood, his clothing cut almost to ribbons, he looked like a member of the LRA.

Morning was coming, however. The shrieking sound of tropical birdsong filled the air, and Alex calmly walked forward.

It was time to get the hell out of here.

…..

Alan Blunt surveyed the special team he had handpicked to go after Alex Rider. Their backgrounds were diverse, but they were all the best.

They would have to be, to have even a chance to catch the rouge teenager. Blunt winced at that thought – that it would take the best of his country's military to bring in or put down a mere teenager.

Still, if there had ever been a team created that could do the impossible – a team that could slay dragons and walk with gods – it was this one.

One of the reasons that Alan Blunt was so good at his job was because, when it mattered, he knew how to pick the right man for the job. Or rather, in this case, men.

He cleared his throat.

"Gentlemen, this mission is beyond top secret," he began, all business. "It is need to know _only_. Your assignment mustbe executed as swiftly and as silently as possible. There will be no paper trail, no records whatsoever. You will be officially on paid medical leave during the time that you are on this mission. Our department will absorb any costs that you incur as expenses paid for bank conferences. You may not speak of this mission to anyone who is not in this room right now. Is that understood?"

A chorus of assents sounded around the room.

"Your target's name is Alexander Jonathan Rider," Blunt began, when satisfied that each of the men had answered. "Until very recently, he was an agent in our employment, but he used that position to steal top secret records and destroy government property. He has eluded capture. Your mission is to find him and bring him in."

"And if he resists arrest, sir?"

Blunt paused.

"He almost certainly will," Blunt answered. "And in that case, you have permission to use whatever means necessary to incapacitate him and bring him in. Obviously, we would prefer him alive and whole, but if you are forced to make a choice between letting him harm civilians or yourselves and shooting him… I trust you to exercise the best of your judgment to determine whether you need to bring him back in handcuffs or a body bag."

"How long do you expect this mission to take?" one of the soldiers asked cautiously.

"As long as is necessary," Blunt stated simply. "You will be relieved from this duty if it becomes an inexcusable amount of time to be away from your respective positions."

The men were still looking uneasy.  
"This agent presents the most dangerous of any security breach this nation has ever experienced," Blunt said quietly. "He received much of his education in a terrorist training camp, and is actively working to undermine the efforts of the nation of Britain. This mission is for the good of Queen and Country."

"Is there anything else?" one asked.

Blunt surrendered over the file that was on his desk.

"This will have all the information you require on your target," Blunt said. "Get moving, gentlemen."

Outside, an owl hooted faintly in the night.

…

**To be continued…. In Operation: Scorched Earth! Coming soon to a FFN near you!**

**~InK**


End file.
